


you got me singing the blues

by atavists



Series: do you lot think southgate is homophobic? [3]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: English National Team, English Premier League, M/M, Manchester City, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-01-21 09:58:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 105,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21297602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atavists/pseuds/atavists
Summary: John rarely scores, but when he does, he always scores twice.
Relationships: Jack Grealish/John Stones, Leroy Sané/John Stones
Series: do you lot think southgate is homophobic? [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1788670
Comments: 107
Kudos: 158





	1. villa at home

**Author's Note:**

> A slow-burning Stones x Grealish fic following real time events from November 2019 to November 2020. Features a healthy dose of Sané, Walker, KDB, Barkley, and of course the rest of the City and England boys. It’s essentially an in-depth characterisation of John who I imagine probably isn’t half as interesting as this makes him out to be lol. Enjoy x

John hadn’t sent Grealish that text, but he had stalked his Instagram a fair few times. 

It was miles better than stalking Leroy’s. John knew he wasn’t exactly Gok Wan himself with his Alexander Wang trainers and CDG t-shirts that made him look like he’d copied the mannequin in the entrance of the Trafford Centre Selfridges, but contrary to popular belief - also known as the comments section - Leroy couldn’t pull those three-quarter length chinos off. No-one was sexy enough to pull of such a crime to fashion. On second thought, what were the odds for Kylie Jenner? John enjoyed stalking her Instagram as well, preferably alone in bed with the lights turned off.

He was just being harsh about Leroy for the sake of it. He’d moved on, honestly, he had. He was the one back in training, giving it large to Walks about how Sané and Aymeric wouldn’t even recognise the new and improved number five when they eventually recovered from their ACL injuries. 

John would probably lose his place at the back to Aymeric for good as soon as he was fit, but at least he wasn’t in Nico’s shoes, having his head called for after every game. That lad just needed to stay off the floor, like. How he’d made a habit of diving in the second an opposition player got the ball in their half John’d never know.

And speaking of kicking habits, John had been trying to wean himself off his meds. He’d been wanting to do it since the moment his counsellor had said they seemed to have helped - after hearing that anyone else would keep taking them, but it’d had the opposite effect for John. At times he even preferred a bit of nerves to the sheer numbness his meds caused, especially before a match. It was just the fear of it all backfiring, of walking out onto the pitch with his chest heaving and lungs burning, that had made him stick with them in the run-up to his first Premier League start of the season.

It was only Aston Villa, but then again it had only been Wolves, and the time before that had only been Norwich. Pep had almost burst that vein running the length of his forehead as he bollocked them after those embarrassing defeats.

Maybe this fixture would be even worse. Pep had seemed nervous lately, like, potentially-losing-his-job nervous. He’d been throwing shite about more than ever before, downing a six-pack of water bottles by the day, and glaring at Kev in the dressing room as if to telepathically tell him if he didn’t do an 11/12 season Messi and carry the entire squad to a Champions League medal he’d be out the door and off to Real Madrid. No-one wanted that at this point in time.

Well, maybe except for Raheem, who’d done an interview with some fashion magazine and said it was his dream to play abroad one day. John made a mental note to tell him it wasn’t worth it. Then again, who was he to speak? The other week Paul Merson had said John should be playing in the Championship live on Sky Sports News. Merson was a joke of a pundit but anyone could say enough shit and have it gradually stick, and his opinion on John had apparently stuck like fucking glue. 

That wasn’t what he wanted to be thinking about as he lined up in the tunnel, but if Merson was right after all, John should feel at home for the next ninety minutes. Villa had been promoted at the end of last season and were favourites to go right back down. With the reigning champions out of sorts, it was probably a good time for them to visit the Etihad. Silver lining and that.

The weather reflected the mood. It was a grim day, windy and grey, and the onslaught of drizzle was the type that chilled you to your bones. Visibility was low and the pitch about as slippy as an ice rink - a defender’s nightmare. 

Everyone was in their thermals. John couldn’t help but notice how ugly Villa’s away kit was as they gathered beside the home team in the tunnel. City’s own away kit wasn’t exactly a sight for sore eyes - highlighter yellow fading into neon pink - but it had grown on John. They were in the sky blue today though, with Villa in an unfortunate dark green, black and red combo. Even Tyrone Mings couldn’t pull it off. John would admit the centre-half was a good-looking lad had he not taken his place on the national team.

Someone strode through the gap between the two teams and knocked John into the wall on their way. He’d learned not to pipe up because the culprit tended to be Pep, but it certainly wasn’t his manager this time.

Jack Grealish was making his way to the front of the Villa line and readjusting the band on his arm as if his life depended on it. John found himself glaring at the man without really knowing why. Maybe it was the junior shinpads peeking out over the top of his rolled-down socks, or the blonde highlights in his slicked-back hair, or the two-sizes-too-small kit, but there was definitely something about him. John prayed to God that they’d hold the ball for long enough to keep him out of the game. 

Right Here, Right Now finally started playing and the refs begun to lead the two teams out. His heart was racing in his chest, his stomach churning to oblivion. The only thought that seemed to calm him down was one he held against his better judgement - maybe Grealish looked good in that Villa away kit, after all. 

It was still nil-nil after the first half. Pep couldn’t hide his rage in the dressing room, continuing his rant even when they got the call to head back out. But it wasn’t just him; everyone was sick of it, sick of the way teams set up by putting all their players behind the ball so there was no room in the box for crosses or through-balls. They’d been getting a good deal of corners, but it didn’t help that John was the tallest of them all at six-two and couldn’t find the net to save his life. Tyrone Mings was fucking six-foot-six and man-marking little Gabi to the death. John knew better than to let his frustration show, but the mopiness on his face had grown to an even worse shade than usual. 

“Come on Johnny,” Pep sighed on their way back out, clapping him on the back a touch too roughly. “Don’t worry, proving yourself to anyone, proving yourself to me. Just play like I know you play.”

It took just thirty seconds for Raheem to score after the whistle was blown to start the second half, so Pep was no doubt pleased he’d managed to get through to them. Still, it wasn’t until David doubled the scoreline fifteen minutes later that their manager settled down and took a break from screaming at them along the touchline. 

Even with the lead and Pep back in his seat John never quite felt at ease. His mood was justified when Villa managed to win a corner and he lost Engels in the box as the corner swung in. He’d never been more thankful for Eddy when Engels’ bullet of a header seemed to be heading straight for the top corner only to be pawed away at the last second. 

Villa got the better of them after that. John was running back on the counter, trying to cover McGinn, and as he glanced around he saw no signs of support. Panic got the better of him and he nudged McGinn with his elbow, hoping to knock him off balance.

McGinn shoved him back and they both hit the ground. The soaking wet grass softened the blow, and John thought he’d better thank his lucky stars he hadn’t managed to twist his ankle or do something similarly stupid. But he had bigger things to worry about. A flash of chestnut hair zipped past him, ball in tow.

He spat the bile out from the back of his throat and scanned the pitch for the ref. Arms aloft, running in tandem with the Villa counter, he was signalling for play to continue.

John wanted to scream, to smack the pitch with his palms. He chose to get to his feet instead and tear his way towards the ball. Grealish was moving around the box like a cartoon bank robber, tiptoeing along the white lines with a feather-light touch. He was waiting for the perfect moment, waiting for the shift to happen and the gap to open that would allow him to make his shot. 

Their backline was all over the place. Walks was yelling for John to cover him and Ferna was refusing to commit himself, already on a yellow. John didn’t really think about what he was doing, wasn’t sure whether it was a smart decision or not, but when he extended a foot and made direct contact with the ball to snatch it out of Grealish’s grasp his move seemed to have paid off.

That was until Grealish’s body buckled forwards with his arms tucked into his side, his blonde-tipped hair thrashing against the turf. The whistle was ear-splitting as it screeched through the air.

John turned to see the ref pointing to the penalty spot. No fucking way was that a pen. 

“I won the fucking ball!” he bellowed, arms aloft. “I won the fucking ball, and it wasn’t even in the box! I swear to fucking God! Just check VAR for fuck’s sake!”

Ferna as good as clipped him around the ears for his whining and moved him to the side so he could give the ref some grief himself. Kevin and Raheem joined in, leaving John to mope off and try not to let the tuts and jeers from the crowd reduce him to tears.

His teammates were doing their best, demanding the challenge be checked by VAR, certain it had happened outside the box rather than in it. Sack that. As if VAR would ever make a decision in their favour. 

It was no use. Grealish was already stood over the ball, hands on his hips with his gaze levelled towards an unimpressed Eddy. The Brummie prick knew it had happened outside the box, but he’d turned up his act, picked up the ball, and was ready to take full advantage of it. John glared at him furiously and refused to react when the referee blew his whistle again and pointed at the spot for a second time. 

Another mistake, another fuck up. A regular day at the office for John, then. He couldn’t watch. 

But fuck, was he glad he did. Grealish skied it. The ball went flying into the stand behind the net, much to the amusement of the home fans. It was an awful penalty, taken so badly it was almost as if he’d missed on purpose. On purpose? Surely not.

Grealish turned away from goal, head down, before his eyes raised and landed smack bang on John’s face. God, the lad looked gutted, skin speckled with rain drops, a scowl on his lips. He shrugged and shook his head at himself. Or was it at John? He didn’t have time to think about it - Eddy passed the ball to him and they started on the attack once more.

Ilkay scored just before full time to secure the three points. John couldn’t bring himself to talk to anyone, to celebrate or see it as a victory. What he’d do was dwell on his mistakes and feel sorry for himself instead. 

But he couldn’t get it off his mind, the way Grealish had missed that pen, the way he’d looked at John right after. The Villa captain was stood at the top of the tunnel as the teams made their way back in, talking to one of his team’s backroom staff. Everyone else was making their way into the dressing rooms. John was mostly being avoided by his teammates who knew he’d no doubt be feeling raw, his unpredictably sensitive side always coming to the surface after a shaky performance. At this stage he’d started to think he wasn’t a very likeable character.

He had to pass by Grealish to get into his own dressing room. He’d never been very good at acting unbothered, at stopping whatever emotion he was feeling from showing on his face. And he couldn’t help but glance at Grealish as he made his way up the stairs, calves aching. 

He was two steps away from the door of the dressing room when Grealish looked back at him and their eyes met. Fucking fuck. It’d be awkward as fuck if he didn’t say something now.

“Alright, mate?” was naturally the first thing that came to mind. 

Grealish didn’t reply straight away, still listening to whatever the man he’d been having a conversation with was saying. As if it wasn’t already awkward enough, John thought, standing like a lemon as he waited for Grealish to pry himself away. 

What was he even going to say now? He didn’t know the lad at all, couldn’t even remember a time he’d played against him before today. John seemed to think they were close in age but had never been together at England, had never seen each other in a non-football setting. The pen made it all that much worse. 

It didn’t take Grealish long to ease himself out of his conversation and move on to John. It was weird seeing him up close after chasing him about for ninety minutes straight in the wind and rain. The weather hadn’t done him a disservice, though; he looked as put-together as ever apart from the grass stains littering the fabric of his skin-tight kit. His Instagram didn’t do him justice, John thought.

“Alright?” he said, moving close to John. His expression gave absolutely no indication of how he was feeling. “Tough one in that rain, eh?”

“Yeah,” John forced out. “Good old Manchester.”

This was the first time he’d been able to get a proper look at Grealish. It was all huffing and puffing out on the pitch, sweaty foreheads and flushed skin, no time for anyone to study a face. Or a body. They were both slim, but Grealish was built with muscle and a frame that curved in at the waist and out at the hips and thighs. John was so lanky he’d been called a pencil since the age of thirteen. Grealish was considerably smaller than John too, who definitely had head and shoulders on him. John liked that, liked looking down on someone who strode around like he blessed the earth beneath him. This lad really did love himself, didn’t he? Always smirking or scowling, striding around in that breezy manner. The caramel tan topped up by sunbeds, the signature trim smothered in gel, the glinting white teeth, the obnoxious hands on his slack hips, the fluttery eyelashes, the pouted lips, the freckles dotted over the bridge of his nose, the—

“John, mate?”

“Er, yeah?” he muttered, throat blisteringly dry. Grealish was looking at him like he needed fucking sectioning.

“Well, you wanted to talk to me or summat, then?”

“Did I?” he asked, not meaning for it to come out as rude as it ended up sounding. “I mean, yeah, course, but not really, like, I didn’t really have anything to say, I just— just thought I should say something, at least.”

“Right,” Grealish said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

John started to feel the onset of panic. What else was he to do? Was there anything else to even say? He’d never been good at small talk. He supposed he could ask about the pen. 

“Why’d you do that?” 

Jesus, fuck. Just because he’d thought of doing it didn’t mean he should’ve.

“Eh? Why’d I do what?”

Like butter wouldn’t fucking melt.

“Miss,” John choked. “Why’d you miss?”

Grealish looked down at his unlaced boots and laughed to himself in disbelief. “Pitch was slippy,” he shrugged, glancing back up at John with narrowed eyes. “I’ll get enough stick off our lot for it, trust me. Did you a favour there, really.”

“I still conceded it. Except I didn’t really,” he muttered, “‘cause I swear it wasn’t even in the box.”

“In the box or not, I definitely didn’t miss on purpose,” Grealish was quick to say. “Wish I could tell you I had, Stonesy.”

Stonesy. He’d called him Stonesy. Suddenly John didn’t hate that nickname so much. 

“Go on then. I won’t tell anyone if you don’t.”

Fucking hell. Had that come across as flirtatious? Why the fuck was he flirting? He could be a bit of a flirt sometimes, he’d hold his hands up to that, but Jesus, not at work, and certainly not with a fucking lad. He suddenly found himself wondering what Grealish’s star sign was. He didn’t believe in all that shite, but he’d heard Geminis were bad. Funny that, because he and Kyle were both Geminis, and he and Kyle were both most definitely bad.

“I’m guessing it’d make you feel better if I did tell you I missed on purpose, then?” Grealish joked, shaking his head. “You’re just coming ‘round to the idea you probably won’t win three trophies in one season again.”

“And at this rate it’ll be my fault when we don’t.”

Jack’s expression changed for the first time in the way that John might actually call it sincere. He hated how easy it was for him to sound sorry for himself, to give himself a kicking in front of anyone and everyone who’d listen. It wasn’t hard to deduce what a pathetic wanker he could be sometimes. But Jack didn’t look pitiful, wasn’t ready to give him a clap on the back and take the easy route by telling him to keep his head up. 

“Well I think I’ll be in the shit for missing the pen a lot more than you’ll be getting for giving it away, Stonesy,” he tutted, Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the tan skin of his neck. “Try a relegation battle sometime. It’ll be my fault if we go back down. Out of both our problems I know what I’d rather be at fault for.”

He was smarter than he looked. That small, secretive smile on his pink lips let John know he could have a laugh and take the mick out of himself too, a feat most footballers were incapable of. 

“You played well, by the way,” John found himself saying, only to wonder why he sounded so breathless. 

“Cheers, Stonesy.” The way he kept calling him that made John’s stomach do somersaults. “Tell Southgate that, won’t you? Call up for the Euros would be nice.”

“Yeah, mate. Yeah, of course. Well, that’s if I get one myself,” he scoffed under his breath.

“Well if anything I’m sure you’ll be there over me,” he said, extending his hand for John to take as a parting gesture. “See you again soon John, yeah?”

John couldn’t say it back, couldn’t physically vocalise a farewell. He made sure to drop Jack’s hand as soon as their palms touched. Jack turned away, nonchalant, and headed in the direction of the away dressing room, flexing his fingers at his sides. There was nothing for John to do but follow his lead and make his way to his own dressing room, ready to endure what would no doubt be another classic post-match Pep lecture.


	2. liverpool away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coronavirus means I have time to write about our favourite boys. picked up as close to where I left off last time - this is november, though, so acknowledge we're almost six months off from that and since that we have had the brilliant FA cup final and pep has waxed lyrical about grealish every time he's been asked. almost as if this fic is writing itself

A side effect of John weaning himself off his meds meant he’d been struggling to sleep.

He hadn’t been sure he could cope without them for the game against Liverpool. Everyone else’s nerves were already through the roof, and John had almost convinced himself that his anxiety could just be the bubbles that caused the pot to boil over. He didn’t want to sabotage his own fucking teammates, but with Aymeric out for months and Nico simply being shite, it looked like he had no choice but to play. 

And, when in the training session prior to the game Bernardo had innocently asked John if he had any chewing gum going spare, a simple “yeah mate, front pocket of my bag”, had turned into, “John, do you have a problem with your cock?”

John found himself so infuriated by the idea that he needed viagra to get his dick to work that he forced out a stuttered, frantic explanation. The slim pill bottle that Bernardo was clutching between his fingers were in fact prescribed anxiety meds, and not what that little twat had assumed. 

“They help me… cope with things, I suppose, if you get me? Like… like, they just make me- make me feel better, you know? They aren’t proper important or anything, but, they’re just a thing, aren’t they? Just to get you to relax, isn’t it?” 

That prompted a handful more clueless questions and a whole lot of fret from those unlucky enough to have finished their showers. John swiftly felt burning hot tears of shame streaming down his cheeks, and no matter how much he swiped them away, the bloodshot whites of his eyes gave him away.  
  
“John, mate,” Kyle had murmured, covering his mouth with his hands. “Think you’re… think you might be crying.” 

“Ah, cheers, Walks,” John remarked, teeth bared. “Never would've fucking guessed.” 

By then he’d got himself an audience. Kyle, Bernardo, Kevin, David, Phil, Eddy and Gabi had all gathered around him, leaving him with no room to breathe. He could feel the fear surging in his chest, and it didn’t take long for each breath he huffed out to grow harder and wheezier than the one before it.  
  
“I was joking, John,” Bernardo worriedly called out above the growing murmurs. “I know you don’t have a problem. I was only joking, okay, buddy?” 

Just like the bastard was only joking when he compared Mendy to a black caricature and plastered it all over social media, eh? Sweet, innocent Bernardo. He’d put his foot in it again.

This was different, though. This was John finally being exposed. Only Vinny and Kevin had known about his counselling and even then he’d been reluctant to mention the meds; not only would he now have to explain what they were, but he’d have to explain to everyone why he’d kept it so quiet. Kyle would no doubt flip, feeling betrayed by the fact it’d been kept from him. John had his reasons though; his mate had enough problems of his own for anything else to be added to the pile. 

He didn’t realise how harshly he’d been gripping the bench beneath him until his knuckles began to ache from soreness. Words were on the tip of his tongue but they wouldn’t come out, couldn’t be spoken. The tightness of his chest told him he needed a pill but the bottle was still in Bernardo’s hand, a mere metre away yet still untouchable. It was like he was being taunted. This was sheer panic. This was John fucking it up all over again. 

Through the ringing in his ears John was just about able to make out the sound of Kevin suggesting they should get Pep or Mikel. The idea made John wrap his arms around himself and double over, unsure of whether he was going to throw up or start sobbing into his lap. 

“No, no, no,” a voice called out, one that hadn’t been there before. “No Pep. No way.” 

A hush fell over the group as Sergio emerged and pushed his way through the bodies. He took a moment to study John and the state he was in, but John couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge his teammate. He only realised that Sergio had sat down beside him when he felt the man’s thigh against his own, the white towel wrapped around Sergio’s waist being the only thing separating their skin. 

“He’s upset,” Sergio tutted, his soft little Argentine accent that John loved so much marred by an edge of disappointment. “He needs to breathe for a second. Come on, Johnny. Look at me and breathe.” 

Being treated like a human being again and not some sort of alien soothed John to the point where he did as he was told. His eyes fell over Sergio’s face, and he was hit with an immediate guilt at the sight of those beautiful, wide brown eyes and the strands of damp hair hanging over his forehead, his tan skin speckled with leftover water droplets from his shower. 

John wanted nothing more than to be held by someone. He wasn’t naive enough to expect Sergio to wrap him into a hug right there and then, especially when he was clothed in nothing but a towel, being stared at by the rest of the squad. The affectionate hand cupped around his neck was enough. 

“What’s wrong, John?” 

They wouldn’t understand. Anxiety - everyone got nervous sometimes, didn’t they? And John was a confident, outgoing lad, wasn’t he? Always the sociable one, the joker. Not to mention the big D word - what did he have to be depressed about? 

“Come on, Johnny,” Sergio murmured. “You can tell us. We’re like your brothers, no, eh?”

John thought that Sergio’s breezy, comforting smile paired with those shiny, trusting eyes could make an innocent man plead guilty if he stared at them for long enough. 

So that’s exactly what John did. He must’ve sounded like a right idiot, huffing and puffing and wiping away tears as he explained he’d been seeing a therapist for almost a year now. Of course he got the general response he’d expected, the one that gasped and exclaimed, but you’re always laughing! We never would’ve noticed! Injuries are fucking awful mate, aren’t they!

He held his head up and said he’d felt this way for some time and still didn’t really know why, but with each passing day, he felt better.

Out of nowhere, Kevin’s hands flew up to his mouth. “You’re not gonna kill yourself, are you John?” 

“No, I’m not gonna fucking top myself, Kev, alright? Fucking hell. I just don’t wanna get out of bed sometimes.”

As the team’s captain, David took the liberty of tying it all together in his own broken kind of English. “We’re glad you share this with us, John. And it doesn’t leave here. You’re still the same person to us, aren’t you? It doesn’t change you. And we’re proud of you.” 

“Aye, mate. I suppose,” John mumbled, glancing up at the men stood over him. “But can you trust me, still?”

“Trust you to do what?” Kevin asked, a lump in his throat. 

“Trust me out on the pitch. Trust me not to fuck up.”

“We all fuck up John,” Bernardo told him, a hint of that cheeky smile hanging at the edges of his lips. “Pills or no pills. I’m sorry. I promise.”

“Eh, of course, Bernardo. I know.”

And like that, it was as if a weight had been lifted off John’s shoulders. 

He played the Liverpool game, and he conceded three goals. It had been tough, and despite telling the cameras how proud he was, Pep was tough on his team. John got scowled at for playing Mane onside, and as Pep reminded him, it wasn’t the first time he’d made a mistake like that, or the second, or the third. He felt deflated as they left Anfield, ashamed and lacking confidence. He dreaded to think what the pundits were saying about him. Life was feeling far from a bed of roses. 

Despite that he had something to look forward to. He was due to be at St. George’s Park tomorrow for his first international call-up since the Nations League tournament in summer. It wasn’t something John particularly liked to look back on, considering he’d played an absolute stinker in the semi-final and had been benched for the third-place play-off. He baffled himself; he’d had an outstanding tournament the summer before, scoring two and running the farthest overall distance out of any other player in Russia, only for the next season to go and play like a rookie still finding his feet.

As he walked into the reception of St. James Park, he finalised his aims in his mind. He was gonna do well in training and prove to Gareth he deserved to be picked. Picked with certainty, especially above Tyrone Mings. He was gonna have a good couple of games, and he was gonna find his form again. And he was gonna get himself to the Euros next summer. Would be nice to win it as well, but he wasn’t going that far. 

After he’d dropped his stuff off in his room and convened with Raheem downstairs they followed their regular routine of being ushered along to the dinner hall. John noticed Raheem had a face like a slapped-arse, which had become John’s general expression of late. Head-down, hands in pockets, feet dragging along the carpet - the result of the night before had really gotten to Raz. They must’ve looked like a sorry pair of buggers.

“Chin up mate, yeah?” John half-joked, not quite knowing how to broach the subject. “Think them lot are already all in there.” 

Raheem sneered. He did as John suggested though, raising his head and straightening out his shoulders. 

John could see the other lads through the glass panes that separated the corridor from the dining hall. A couple of the younger lads were in there; Tammy, Maddison, and Mason, cameras on them as they made up the latest set of aspiring debutants. Ah, the glimmer of glory they all had in their eyes. Give it a couple of years, lads, and you’ll be miserable like me and Raz, John wanted to tell them. 

There was a full table at the end of the hall next to the canteen where the food was being served. John’s first impression was that it was a loud table; screeches and laughter were erupting from the group sat around their plates. Of course, the culprits of the noise were Trent, Hendo, Alex, and Joe Gomez - one John knew he had to watch out for, competition wise - and they’d been joined by Trips, Chilwell, Mings and Ross. 

It wasn’t the most impressive gang of lads to say the least, and John realised that thinking that way meant he was a different person now. Old John would’ve been right in the middle of it, making the crudest jokes and ruffling the hair of the man closest to him. All he wanted to do now was sit and have a decent, meaningful conversation. Fuck, these meds were making him boring. He wasn’t even hungry.

He glanced to his left and took a look at Raheem as they approached the canteen. His mate’s eyes were wide and alert, his lips pouted. They hadn’t been spotted yet by anyone on the table, but John knew it was only a matter of time.

“Hey, Raz? Y’alright, mate?” 

“I’m fine,” Raheem replied, sounding much too defensive for him to really be fine.

“Bound to be a bit dicey, like, isn’t it? Should be alright if we just play it cool, though.”

What was that saying? Famous last words? Yeah, well - John had just said his. 

“Raz! How you feelin’ mate?”

John turned slowly on his heels, following the sound of the thick Sunderland-Scouse hybrid accent. Everyone on the table had reared their heads and were staring the two City boys down, mumbling sneers under their breath that would be passed off as jokes if John dared to ask what it was that was really being said. 

Raheem stayed silent. It was rude, yeah, but he couldn’t be arsed with it all, and that was clear. No one knew better, though. Sometimes John struggled to accept they were all meant to be adults.

Hendo stood up first, making an effort to shake John’s hand, then Raheem’s. Raheem offered his hand in return with little enthusiasm, and John noticed how Raheem refused to look Jordan in the eyes. 

“Alright, mate, cat got your tongue or something?” Jordan asked, trying to hide how obviously pissed he was at being blown off.

Raheem shook his head, being curt with every motion as he made a point of studying the food on offer. “Na,” he eventually muttered. 

“What’s up with you, then?” Jordan scoffed, turning between Raheem and the lads on the table. He was playing to a crowd, and John hated it already. “What’s up with him, Stonesy?”

John didn’t know how to answer, but before he could, Joe appeared at his side, arrogantly grinning from ear to ear.

Joe clapped Raheem on the back a touch too forcefully. There was a big height difference between the two of them, something Raheem had to suffer with most people. John was a couple of inches taller than Joe, though, and he instantly felt a need to get between the pair. He left it though, hovering a few feet away with a stern expression. 

“Result still a bit sore, mate, eh?” Joe cackled, dying for a bite from either of them. 

How fucking childish, John thought. This was like playground banter.

“So you the big man now?”

And Raheem wanted to play up to it.

“I asked,” Raheem stated, moving closer to Joe, “are you the big man?” 

Joe was half-amused, half-bewildered. “The big man?” 

“Yeah, you wanna act like a fucking big man, so I’m asking you, are you a fucking big man now?”

John knew he should step in, but didn’t want to panic, didn’t want to escalate things even more. His heart was racing in his chest, cheeks flushed. “Raz, leave it—”

“Are you fucking for real?” Joe mocked, pushing his chest against Raheem’s. 

John almost didn’t see it. It was like a flash of lightning, the way Raheem’s hand flew across Joe’s cheek. Joe looked shocked more than anything, gobsmacked at how it’d all gone south so fast. Raheem’s hand was then clasped around Joe’s throat, tight enough to make his victim gasp for air. 

It was madness at that point. John dragged Raheem back and Hendo grabbed ahold of Joe, needing assistance from Trips and Ross to stop Joe’s fists from making their way to Raheem. Trent was trying to get in Raz’s face, wanting a bit of it, but John turned his back on the lad and boldly told him to fuck off before he made the situation any worse. 

“Why the fuck’d you do that, Raz?” John seethed, pushing his teammate as far away from the scene as possible. He wasn’t angry that Raheem had potentially hurt Joe, fuck no. He was angry at the fact that there was no way this was being kept under wraps, which meant another strike over Raheem’s name in the press, another stain in the eyes of the fans. “Why the fuck did you have to go at him like that?”

John expected something back, a spit in the face, a shove. But Raheem was subdued, eyes glassy as he shook himself off. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “I dunno, John. Why’d you think I did it?”

Later on, when John was laying in bed replaying the incident in his head, he tried to answer the question for himself. It had been rhetorical, though, hadn’t it? He didn’t fucking know, and he didn’t want to. He’d been tutted at by Gareth for not cooling the situation down quickly enough, and when Raheem had said John had nothing to do with it, Trent had had the cheek to say he’d egged Raz on. It was all bullshit. They’d all retired to their rooms and were waiting for the news to break. Gareth was insistent he had to make a statement. John didn’t see why, but at the end of the day, there was no questioning Gareth.

The alarm clock on the bedside table read 10:23pm when the first report was published. Sky News had got ahold of it first, and everything exploded after that. He was thankful that in times like this he had no idea how to work Twitter. In the darkness of the hotel room John bit his nails down as far as they would go, and then started picking at the skin on his lips. He wished he had someone to talk to about it all, someone who’d understand. Not that beauty technician he’d got speaking to in that restaurant last week (and reluctantly shagged), and not even his Mam. 

So when the notification that read “Instagram: @jackgrealish has sent you a direct message” flashed up on his phone’s screen, John almost leapt in the air, propelled by sheer joy. Fuck looking desperate, he thought - he was going to open the message straight away.

The fuck’s happened at training mate? Just seen it all on Twitter. Everyone alright? 

John had to question why he was getting so excited over such a simple message. He read it and reread it, pupils dilating to a huge size as his phone screen glowed with the premise of Jack Grealish reaching out to him. 

Why’d he messaged John, though? Tyrone was there, and he’d seen it all happen, too. Why wasn’t Jack asking him? The answer was pretty simple, but a bit too simple for John’s liking. Did lads slide into one another’s DMs? Maybe he should air it and reply in the morning. Was he thinking too much about it? Should he send Dier a text just to make sure? 

John was distracted from his frantic thoughts as another message appeared. 

Being a bit fucking nosey, aren’t I 😂 

John’s fingertips gingerly brushed the screen as he typed out a reply.

Not at all, if I was you I’d be asking too mate 😂

He pressed send and immediately regretted it. What a shit reply. And fuck the emojis - he hated using that shitty laughing emoji. Relief flooded through his body when Jack returned a message almost straight away. 

Yeah well, didn’t get that bloody call up did I !

Sorry mate   
Forgot to pass on my recommendation to Gareth hahaha

Yeah thought so 😂 you can’t rate me enough

John squirmed and his stomach did a backflip. Oh, how he did rate Jack Grealish. Ten out of ten, that lad. Eleven, maybe, on a good day, and John wasn't talking about his footballing. 

First thing tomorrow morning I’ll be at Southgate’s door to tell him mate

That a promise Stonesy?

Stonesy. He could get used to it, for Jack’s sake, at least. 

Promise mate 

Right, well you gonna tell me whats happened or keep me hanging!

It was 2:09am when John eventually fell asleep. The pair had spoken for hours - they’d discussed the incident, recommended barbers, called Alexander-Arnold a little twat, planned a holiday to Dubai that would never happen and covertly flirted a lot in between it all. John had forgotten the events of the day, and he’d forgotten to take his meds before he drifted off, too. His last thought before his mind shut off was that he hoped he’d dream about Jack. That would be nice.


	3. united away

There were three words in the English language that John dreaded more than anything - Leroy was back. He wondered how you’d say it in German. Actually, forget that. It probably only sounded much scarier than it already did. 

John had hardly played over Christmas after the international break. He’d genuinely been struggling with injury, but he couldn’t ignore how he’d been struggling mentally, too. It was his first Christmas alone - alright, he’d stayed at his parents for a couple of nights, and then had been served a decent enough distraction with a game on Boxing Day, but he’d felt lonely to say the least. His ex had found a new partner and John already knew he was embarrassingly distant with his daughter. He needed to try better, but try better at what? Family life, work life, his mental state? He couldn’t find the energy to do all of those things. Reports of him being shipped off to Arsenal and Pep breathing down his neck made the choice for him. Work life first. 

When the news that Leroy would be rejoining the squad to work himself back to an acceptable level of fitness hit the training campus, John was dying for the ground to swallow him up. 

Kyle brushed past John in the changing room one morning and shot a sceptical look in his direction. “Heard the news? Leroy’s finally coming back.” 

“Funnily enough, I have heard the news, mate,” John muttered, not bothering to mask his passive-aggressiveness. 

“You think you’ll be alright? You know, being around him and that.” 

John paused halfway through pulling his sweaty underarmour off just so he could make a point of scowling at Kyle. He was sure he’d just seen Phil glance over his shoulder, eavesdropping no doubt, and there was half of the squad stood within twenty feet of them as well.

“Mind saying that a bit fucking louder, Walks?” 

Kyle pulled a face at John and promptly turned his back on him. He’d been meaning well, as per, but John couldn’t handle it. Their relationship of late hadn’t been the strongest. They’d always been a close pair, but it was never a spill-all-your-guts-and-feelings friendship. They’d had girlfriends for that (not that they’d dared to do it then). Now they were both single they were struggling to accept they could just play the girlfriend role for one another - platonically, of course. It was no secret John wasn’t the biggest fan of Kyle’s balding head and Kyle found John’s lankiness unattractive. 

The fact was that John didn’t think he’d be alright around Leroy, not at all. Most of his time was spent in the gym doing rehabilitation. Aymeric had been back the past few weeks, and the pair of them training together had been going fairly well. Adding Leroy to that equation wouldn’t do anyone any favours. They’d either ignore one another out of awkwardness, and John would be mopey because of it, or worst case scenario, they’d get along just like they used to - humorously, intuitively, flirtatiously - hurting John even more in the long run. 

Driving home, John felt impulsive. Impulsiveness meant he needed to devise a plan quickly, and this particular plan swiftly became well-set in his mind. He was going to sleep with someone before Leroy returned, and he was going to sleep with them the night before Leroy’s first rehab session. That way he’d walk into training like Billy big bollocks, mind on the sex he’d had the night before, rendering Leroy as much of an afterthought as possible. 

Christ, I must be having a shocking mental health week, John thought, replaying the plan in his mind as he pulled into his drive.

Problem one: he had no one to sleep with. There were a few newish numbers in his phone but he’d ghosted most of them. He was a dick, yeah, but he wasn’t shameless enough to reopen healed wounds. He wasn’t going out to find a bird - he’d made a promise to himself there’d be no more nights out, no more lavish meals, at least until he had a run of three games without any mistakes. Asking that from a twenty-five year old who’d won back-to-back Premier Leagues shouldn’t be a big task at all, but it seemed impossible for John. 

Problem two: Leroy was expected back next week. John’s time frame was short, and problem one had already meant problem two was practically inexistent. You couldn’t rush a graft, not really, and lasses liked the build-up, liked being wined and dined. He could hardly blame them - footballer’s reputations were synonymous with binning girls off, and as much as it made him sick to the stomach to acknowledge it, John had been one of the worst for it. 

Problem three was where it got really confusing: John didn’t even want to sleep with a woman. He hadn’t had a fantasy involving a lass for weeks - months, almost. The reality of his situation usually hit him when he was wanking off. Porn bored him easily, and when he properly got into getting himself off, his technique was to visualise memories of great sex he’d had. The roadblock he’d recently encountered was that most of these memories were doing the opposite affect, turning him off. 

In his most heightened moments other images had been slipping into his mind. Dele, of all fucking people, and Ben bloody Chilwell were the ones his desire seemed to gravitate towards. John supposed there was rationality behind any attraction he had for those two; Dele was bisexual, and that was a fact. They’d known each other for years, too, ever since they were going through puberty. Eric’d fucking strangle John if he knew, but it wasn’t going to progress to that. 

Chilwell, on the other hand, had always been suggestive when he was around John, grabbing him a bit too often, always trying to crack the jokes. Dele and Eric had once commented how they wouldn’t be surprised if he was bent too, hadn’t they? God, could Chilwell tell John was gay? Had he been coming onto him all this time?

It hit John that the wink and smirk Ben had given him after their last match against one another hadn’t been entirely innocent. “Have a good Christmas Johnny,” Ben had grinned, his blinding veneers still not looking quite right in his mouth. “Let me know if there’s anything going on, any parties or that, eh?” 

John hadn’t let him know, quite frankly because there was no parties to go to, and also because he’d sensed the hint of the romantic suggestion in it and shied away from it. He just hadn’t unpacked it until now. 

In the end, it was always about Leroy. Leroy, Leroy, Leroy. Leroy occupied most of John’s fantasies. He just felt grumpy after a wank where he fixated on Leroy, though. Wasn’t even worth the wank, really, was it, if that was the outcome?

There was one individual John thought about from time to time, but only when he was reminded by an Instagram post, or rumours in the press that City were eyeing him up. Grealish was somehow too precious, too pure in John’s mind for him to be fantasised over. He got to thinking that it was maybe even the inkling that there was potentially something between them, a chance that they’d be together, that meant his mind wouldn’t allow him to get his hopes up any more. Sure, the extent of their contact had been one pathetic conversation in the tunnel at full-time and a couple of Instagram DMs, but John felt some sort of way about it all. 

Who was he kidding? Grealish had shagged Jena Frumes at some point in December and she’d plastered a selfie of them together all over the internet. Lingard was fuming, and rightfully so. John was fuming too, only his envy was because someone had had the pleasure of sleeping with Jack. And that someone was a woman, because Jack was straight, and that was something John had to drill into his thick, desperate skull. He couldn’t just go convincing himself that all the lads he fancied were bent. 

The following day was free of training ahead of their trip to Old Trafford in a couple of days time. John didn’t reckon he’d be fit to start, but if he pushed himself and reminded Pep that he existed he could find himself with a place on the bench and that would be a step forward. With that in mind he thought he might try and stay active. His therapist had suggested getting out and about as much as possible and to avoid locking himself away in his apartment. 

Retail therapy was a thing, wasn’t it? He could see the Arndale and Selfridges from his window. He could get a new pair of trainers before Leroy came back - Leroy noticed people’s clothes like that - and that’d be an easy enough thing to chat about, right? He knew it was fucking superficial and he knew he was obsessing over the situation to a tragic degree, but without thinking he was out of his apartment and traipsing up the road. 

No-one really recognised John, or so he convinced himself to stop his palms growing slick with sweat. He got the occasional stare, but he had a feeling that was simply because of his height and garish Off-White hoodie with matching cap. He was glad he’d always maintained a fairly low profile. He couldn’t stand being in the position of Raheem, or Pogba, their private lives dissected and constant criticism thrown at them. It was because they were black and the press were racist twats - John knew that - and he wasn’t going to kid himself and say he was on the same level of talent, either. It just wasn’t fair they had to deal with that as well. 

John was entirely lost in his own thoughts and glancing over a t-shirt with a price tag of a grand when he heard his name being called out. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If he was forced to take a selfie he’d really have to make a fucking effort to smile and hide the depressive look in his eyes. He knew he shouldn’t have come out.

“Johnny! Mate!” 

John stared over his shoulder, whole body tense. A wave of relief hit him when any fears of a stranger heading towards him were diminished, and he was soon face to face with someone familiar. It was fucking Chilwell. Ben Chilwell, just randomly wandering around Selfridges in Manchester at the exact same time that John was. What were the fucking chances, like?

Speaking his thoughts, John asked, “What are the chances, eh?” 

“Just what I was thinking,” Ben laughed.

John felt himself break into a genuine smile as Ben reached him and leant out to shake his hand and wrap him into a hug. It was momentarily uncomfortable, and John felt an overwhelming guilt swell in his chest. As he stood back, though, the elated grin on Ben’s face calmed him. The lad had leaned an arm out against one of the clothes racks and crossed his legs. John glanced him up and down, trying not to glower too hard at the questionable outfit choice of baggy trousers and Balenciaga hoodie. His frame just seemed too small for him to pull it off, his legs drowned in the fabric. 

“What’s going on with you then?” 

“How’d you mean?” John questioned, trying to mask the tingle of panic in his limbs. 

“Only wondering what you’re up to,” Ben shrugged, frowning ever so slightly at John’s defensiveness. “Haven’t seen you around much.”

As opposed to what? They lived at opposite ends of the country. Maybe Ben was referencing the cosy-looking nights out he’d been having with Maddison, Declan Rice and Mason Mount in Manchester. Maybe he was here for another one of those. 

“Just doing some shopping right now mate,” John replied. He hadn’t taken his meds for a week or so - success - but it had made him realise he was still just as boring without them. 

“You on your own?” 

“Yeah, on me own lad,” he grimaced. “And yourself?” 

“Came to see my sister actually. She’s at uni here, so I said I’d take her shopping.” He paused and glanced around, running a hand over the slick of dark hair on his head. “Lost her though. She said she was going to try something on and the last time I saw her was about twenty minutes ago.”

“Ah, she’s probably still in there,” John told him. “You know what lasses are like, take their time, don’t they?” 

Fuck - why couldn’t he just hold his tongue? The words had slipped out without a second thought but John despised how he’d made himself sound like such a slag at the first opportunity. Funny that, when he hadn’t even had sex for three months. Ben would soon be wondering if he was compensating for something, wouldn’t he, and then it’d all have to come out. 

“Tell you what - I’m meant to be going out with my sister and some of her friends tonight,” Ben said. “You up for coming?” 

John turned stiff at the invitation, but an excuse was easy enough to come up with. “Ah, no night’s out for me mate. Pep’s put a blanket ban on it, you know what he’s like.” 

“Oh no, its not a night out. Just a low-key meal, about eight of us,” Ben remarked, unfazed. “Madders is coming, actually.” 

“Wouldn’t want to intrude, like.” Fuck - why hadn’t he just said he was busy? 

“No mate, you wouldn’t be.”

“Well, alright, then. If that’s alright with everyone.” Fuck, John - again?! 

“‘Course it is,” Ben grinned, looking a touch too gleeful for John’s liking. “Eight o’clock mate, Panacea.” 

“Guess I’ll see you there then.” 

John bought a nine-hundred-quids-worth pair of trainers just to cope with the anxiety of the thought of going out with Ben Chilwell, James Maddison, and some random university students they were no doubt trying to shag. His mind had been telling him no but his heart wanted something else, and his heart had apparently taken over control of his mouth which had been incapable of saying no. 

He arrived fashionably late to the restaurant. It was fairly busy for a Sunday night, but then again, it was always busy in there, the bar lined with yuppies and foreign investors who’d come to turn Manchester into a building site. John fucking hated it, but he’d told himself it was one of those inevitable lifestyle choices he had to put up with. He only had ten years left on his career - well, at this point he was lucky if he had five - may as well pretend to enjoy it while he could. No wonder he was fucking depressed. 

Sure enough, Maddison had joined Ben, and the rest of the table was occupied with ‘friends’ of Ben’s sister, who’d just turned twenty two weeks ago. It was pleasant enough company. Ben insisted on paying for John’s drinks, and he made sure he always had a pint lined up. John even managed to relax a little bit, falling back into his old social routine of telling elaborate stories and having the attention on him. 

Madders had been grafting with one of the lasses all evening. John had noticed that Ben hadn’t so much as flirted with any of the girls. And when it got to eleven and it was time to move on, John was reminded by Ben that Pep had enforced a no-night-out rule, so he couldn’t join the rest of them at the club. 

“Fuck, yeah,” John exclaimed as they stood outside on the kerb, actually relieved Ben had made the excuse for him so he didn’t have to. “Guess I’ll be getting an Uber home, then.” 

“I don’t know if I fancy going out you know,” Ben said, turning his back on the rest of the group so he was speaking strictly to John. “You just gonna go back to yours?” 

Was this it happening? John’s stomach churned as he stared back at Ben, hoping he didn’t look as gormless as he felt. Was his plan unfolding itself out in front of him? Then it hit him - tomorrow was Leroy’s first day back at training. John was a sucker when it came to believing in fate, and this was no coincidence. 

“Well do you wanna come back to mine?” he asked, thankful for the charisma that his slight drunken-ness had gifted him. “Just chill, have a few more?” 

Ben was never going to say no, was he? 

Twenty minutes later and they were back at John’s, each spread out on their own sofa, bottles of Stella in hand as they took the piss out of one of Pickford’s recent drunken brawls that had been doing the rounds on social media. 

“I love that lad,” John beamed, “but I proper fucking hate him too. Could never play week in, week out with him behind me. Once every three months is more than enough for me.” 

“I think he fancies you,” Ben commented, only grinning harder when John shot him a look of bewilderment. “What? I think a lot of the lads fancy you, Johnny. Loftus-Cheek does. You, Walks, Dier and Dele make a nice quartet, as well.” 

John had no idea where this had come from. “Fuck are you on about, mate?” he laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t know about anyone else, but Dier and Dele don’t fancy anyone but each other.”

“I know,” Ben groaned, bouncing off John’s comment. “It’s like, when the fuck are they gonna come out, you know what I mean?” 

That made John sit up. He’d go to the grave with Dele and Eric’s secret; that’s how pure he knew their relationship was. “How’d you know about that? They tell you?” 

“No, it’s just obvious, isn’t it?” Ben scoffed, unable to hold back his laughter. “They’re quite darling. It’s also clearly tearing them apart.” 

John’s expression must’ve told Ben something that didn’t need to be spoken with words.

“Oh come on, John. Are you acting like you’re completely blind to it all?” 

“I knew about Eric and Dele,” he murmured, leaning forward so he could rest his elbows on his knees. 

Ben chuckled and matched John by sitting upwards, chin raised. “Yeah. They aren’t the only lads in the Premier League who like boys, too, John.” 

John’s heart pounded in his chest. “Well, like who?” He took another swig of his beer and hoped this wasn’t some kind of sick joke.

“I couldn’t say,” Ben stated, turning serious. “Who knows what could happen if we get found out, hey?” 

“We?” John choked. 

“Do you need me to spell it out mate?” Ben asked, becoming bashful. “Yeah, I’m bi. May as well admit it to you now.” 

It was now or never, John supposed, but it would’ve never come out if it wasn’t for the assistance of the alcohol. “Well, I’m bi too.” Time felt suspended, and John felt like his insides were turning in on themselves. What had he done?

Ben simply smirked and took another swig, his eyebrows raised. “Yeah, I thought you might be.” 

“So what,” John scoffed, mildly offended he’d been so easy to pick out, “you’re here to take the piss, or here to squeeze it out of me?” 

Ben threw his head back and laughed. “Neither of those things, John. I’m here ‘cause I’d rather sleep with you, actually.” 

When it came to stating what he wanted, John had never really met anyone more forward than him. He wasn’t sure he wanted Ben that badly, because quite frankly, he didn’t fancy the pants off the lad, but that kind of confidence paired with intoxication was attractive enough. And this was exactly what he wanted, wasn’t it? This had been his plan all along.

John got to his feet and walked over to where Ben was sat. It hit him that he had no idea how to do this, no idea how to even kiss a lad. It couldn’t be that much different, could it?

“You’ve not done this before?” Ben asked as he stood up, finding himself as close to John as possible without touching him. 

John shook his head. 

“That’s alright. We’ll just take our time.” 

It turned out that kissing a lad wasn’t that much different to kissing a girl, after all. The mechanics were the same, but the dynamic had changed - John couldn’t be the dominant one, not when Ben was leading. The taste of Stella was strong in his mouth and Ben was all tongue, fast and forceful. There were no tits to grab, and he wasn’t sure about the arse scenario, either. He fell on one truth as they made their way to the bedroom - surely whatever stimulated him would stimulate Ben too. 

Neither of them were very vocal as they took their clothes off, actions messy and rushed as the alcohol seeped deeper into their systems. John thought his head might explode when Ben’s hand finally began to stroke his dick, so he returned the action, so overwhelmed that he imagined he’d probably be most comfortable if they simply just wanked one another off and called it a night. 

“You got lube?” Ben asked, the question muffled as he leant into John’s neck and groaned from his touch. 

He nodded and shifted to the other side of the bed, praying that year-old bottle was still in the bottom drawer of his bedside table. This was the scary part, John figured. He’d had a finger up his arse before, and he’d definitely liked it, but it had been just that - a finger. And even worse to consider - who was fucking who?

The lube was there, so John clumsily chucked the bottle at Ben and hoped he’d make the decision for them both. Ben ignored it though, instead pulling John into him for a kiss before pushing him away again. John closed his eyes, searching for a sensation of satisfaction and instead finding an ache that was brewing in his temples. Upon opening his eyes John found Ben with his lips inches away from his tip. The sight was more alarming than it should’ve been. John wasn’t sure he was seeing straight. How’d he even got here? 

“Can we just…” John choked out, “just do the—” 

“Someone’s eager.” 

Ben took control, which John was thankful for. He prayed Ben hadn’t gone light on the lube, mainly because his entire body was so tense he was clenching his arsecheeks so hard he wondered if anything would even go up there. Well, two of Ben’s fingers did, and after some slurred murmurs of reassurance that he could “relax - I’ll be gentle”, John felt something else. No prizes as to what, his internal monologue commented, trying to keep the panic at a minimum. Was this how it felt for girls? 

It didn’t last long. Through heavy breaths and groans Ben apologised for cumming so quickly, blaming the alcohol, but John was thankful, the discomfort being so strong that he expected his brain and his body to split in half. Despite that he must’ve cum at some point too, his hand and stomach coated with his own jizz. There were a few half-hearted thrusts to punctuate the moment before Ben pulled out and his flushed body collapsed onto John’s. 

That was fucking horrendous, John thought, gawping at the ceiling.

“How was that?” Ben asked.

“Good, yeah. Knackered now though.” 

John had the gall to lean over to the bedside table and flick the switch on the lamp. The darkness was nice, soothing the throbbing in his head. He might’ve been lying about the sex, but he hadn’t been lying when he said he was knackered. The second he rolled onto his front and shut his eyes he was gone. 

He was awoken the next morning by a dreadful, shrill, ring emanating from his phone. He’d intended to leave it until something somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind reminded him that it was Monday morning, and he did indeed have training. 

Training. Pep. Pep would go insane if he was late again. Leroy - fuck, Leroy was back. Ben - where the fuck was Ben? He was no longer in bed, and a glance into John’s en-suite told him he wasn’t there, either. 

John followed the sound of his ringtone and scrambled onto the floor. It was hiding under his shirt from the night before, an event he didn’t have the capacity to process just yet.

The call was from Kyle. Christ, he was not in the mood. Texts were usually a little lighter on the mind.

Mate where are you  
Training’s about to start  
Pep’s gonna have you’re head  
Oh you really don’t do yourself any favours do ya

Alright, so perhaps not. But they’d only been sent fifteen minutes ago, and that was salvageable. 

He didn’t have time for a shower. He’d only get sweaty at training anyway; he could shower after. Gum would work in place of brushing his teeth. He took a quick piss and sneaked a glance in the mirror. Holy fuck, he couldn’t let Leroy see him like this. He also couldn’t let Pep have another thing to bollock him for. He threw on a tracksuit and ruffled his hands through his hair. Phone, gum, keys - there was no fucking chance he was sober enough to drive. Had to hope the cops weren’t checking up on supercars today.

He’d just about reached the front door of his apartment when he was stopped in his tracks.

“In a hurry to get somewhere, mate? This is your place, by the way, not mine.” 

The last thing John needed right now was Ben fucking Chilwell sat at his breakfast bar. He was hovered over a bowl of cereal, grinning, somehow looking a whole lot fresher than John did. 

“Fucking forgot I had training. If I miss it Pep’ll murder me,” he rambled, blowing out his cheeks. “I’ve got to go. Just let yourself out, yeah?” 

“What about locking the door?” Ben called after him. 

John scowled as he dashed out. “Don’t worry about it!” 

He had to count his blessings as he arrived at the ground, frantically pulling into a random space as his usual one was taken. Pep had apparently got carried away on tactics, holing himself up in his office with Rodolfo, so he had time to change before anyone got too suspicious. He was out on the pitch quickly enough, head hung in shame, Kyle glowering at him once he caught sight of the hangover’s affect on his face. 

Kevin found it hilarious. “Stonesy!” he called, almost falling over from laughter. “Who the fuck did you go out with last night?” 

“None of your business,” John snapped, adding a wink so it was played off as a joke.

Everyone calmed down when Pep eventually arrived. John made an effort of staying as far away from him as possible, but that man had eyes in the back of his fucking head.

“You look exhausted, John,” were the only words Pep spoke to him for the entire three hour session. 

“Suppose you’re off the hook then,” Kyle said as they traipsed back into the changing room.

“Don’t know about that,” John groaned. “Think Pep’s sick of me, really.”

“I wasn’t talking about Pep, mate. I’m on about Leroy. He pushed back his first session - he’s not due in ’til Friday, now.” 

John’s head had been so fried that he’d entirely forgot about Leroy. He didn’t believe in God, but if there was anyone watching over him, they’d sent him a blessing in the form of Leroy’s no-show. 

Unsurprisingly, John didn’t make the squad for the United game. It was alright though, because he couldn’t really fucking care less, either.


	4. villa away - part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back x
> 
> two parts to this as I feel it probably runs smoother that way and i'm sure makes for easier reading also! excited for the next part as we finally get john and jack back together again and i don't know about anyone reading but that's honestly the only reason I'm here lol so please enjoy

As if by some sort of miracle John had made the squad for the Villa game. He was even picked to start, too. They got told these things the day before the game sometimes, which on this particular occasion was Pep’s chosen method. But John had to get through half-a-day of training first, and this time, Leroy really was returning. 

He’d been prepared, not like Monday morning after that whole mess of things. That meant a fresh trim and a shave, his best outfit to don as he walked in and out, and, reluctantly, a return to the meds. There was no denying they helped - he felt less anxious on them anyway, mostly because he felt nothing at all - and Leroy would be able to sniff out John’s nerves from a mile off. The lad could always see right through him, was a good reader of people like that. 

John arrived to the training ground half an hour early. David was the only one there before him, and he made a point of reaching up on his tiptoes so he could wrap an arm around John’s shoulders and ask how he was doing. He’d have welled up from the affection David was showing if the meds didn’t instantly block any tears from forming. 

“I’m all good, mate. On the mend, anyway.” 

“I’m happy to hear. Something that might, eh, help you…” 

“Aye,” John nodded, filling the gap while David searched for the right words, “what would that be?” 

“Leroy will be back today. You have missed him? Good friends, you two.” 

John’s face must’ve told another story.

“No?” David frowned. “I say, because, you’ve been, erm— quiet more, since he’s gone.” 

John forced himself to chuckle, but there was a pain swelling in his chest. “We’re just friends, yeah.” Fuck, why’d it come out like that? Thank God David had a rather basic grasp of English, otherwise he might’ve sniffed something out. “Anyway, best go get changed,” John said, wriggling his way out of the conversation. “See you in a bit.” 

Leroy was late. John and Aymeric were already fifteen minutes into their individual recovery sessions when he strolled into the gym, nostrils characteristically flared, eyes narrowed as he surveyed the scene around him. People always commented on how gracefully he moved on the ball - almost reminiscent of a gazelle when he broke into his stride - and his casual movements were no different, smooth and calculated and effortless. That was Leroy to a T. He didn’t even have to try. 

“John, you feeling alright bud? Heart rate’s gone a bit above normal.” 

John’s eyes shot to the treadmill beneath him. Heat prickled at his cheeks, no doubt only raising suspicions as he turned to his trainer, Chris, and sent him a few frantic nods. He made a point of not looking in Leroy’s direction after that, instead finishing his run on the treadmill with only the mirrors lining the walls giving him a view of the rest of the room around him. 

Aymeric and Leroy were already laughing about something like old friends as John stepped off the treadmill. Daring to sneak a glance, John raised his head. It was the wrong move at the wrong time; Leroy was gazing right back at him, a tiny smile in control of his perked-up lips and his bright eyes. 

“Weights next, John, yeah?” Chris suggested, beginning to fiddle with the settings on the machines. He’d probably noticed John’s dip in concentration. 

“Yeah, mate,” he replied, eyeing up the leg-press. “I’ll try with ninety-five first.” 

“John!” Deep, charismatic, cool. That was Leroy’s fucking voice. “Hey, John, how are you?” 

Heart in his throat, John forced himself to turn on his heels. Leroy was making his way over from Aymeric, arms swinging at his sides, curls of hair swaying as he moved. If he wasn’t such a coward John might’ve told him to fuck off, or, in a more socially acceptable way, would’ve acted like nothing was wrong, realised Leroy just wasn’t for him, got over it all, and asked Leroy how he was in return like a normal person. 

Instead John wordlessly took the hand Leroy had offered, held it loosely, and took a step back before Leroy could instigate a hug.

Leroy could tell something was wrong straight away, and it showed on his face. It was weird for John to shy away from a greeting like that; they’d always been a bit fucking touchy-feely to say the least, and now he couldn’t even stand minimal contact. He couldn’t even look at Leroy properly. 

“I’m fine,” John lied, raising his eyebrows in the hopes it could constitute as a smile. “Yourself? Glad to be back?” 

A frown had taken place of Leroy’s smile. That was one of his mild faults; he couldn’t hide his emotions to save his life. “Yeah, I’m glad to be back,” he murmured, folding his arms over his chest. Ah, he was doing that thing he did where he couldn’t help himself from sniffing out what was wrong. 

That was enough to cause John’s stomach to burn. “Alright, well, see you later. I’ve got to do my weights.” Everyone knew that was horseshit. Never in his life had John wanted to do his weights. 

For the rest of the session John could feel Leroy’s stare focused in on him from the other side of the room. It made everything ten times more difficult, and John wasn’t lifting anywhere near his usual weight. More signs he wasn’t fit enough, even though his muscles and bones said otherwise. He had to pack it in or else Nico could be in his place for the match tomorrow, and that was the last thing anyone wanted.

John made a point of acting overly positive as he returned to the changing rooms, showered with the lads who’d been doing post-match recovery, and got dressed to leave. Pep gave him a clap on the back as he passed by. At least he still remembered who John was, like. 

Leroy had started his session late so he was twenty minutes behind John, and he’d got even more caught up with greeting everyone on his return. Could’ve all gone a lot worse, John thought, even if he was slightly disappointed they’d barely spoken. All for the best, he reminded himself.

It wasn’t until he got into his car to leave that he realised he’d left his phone inside. In the training room, to be exact, right next to the leg-press. Shit. 

Don’t panic, he told himself, slamming the car door and trudging back inside. Leroy was probably all wrapped-up by now.

Well, he was all wrapped-up, but he was still sat in there, one hand trawling through his phone, the other holding a bottle containing a questionably-coloured liquid he’d been drinking from. There was no-one else in there, just Leroy. And no wonder John had fallen for him; he was beautiful. He was the perfect mix of masculine - the strong, angular jaw, wide nose, slender waist - and feminine - the plump lips, crown of curls, and that one particular mole on his left cheek that could’ve been a beauty spot. His fiancé was a lucky lass.

Without announcing his presence John walked in, picked up his phone, and headed to leave again. 

“Nice sneakers buddy.”

Leroy had gotten to his feet. He tucked his phone under his waistband and began to make his way over to John, still sporting that same investigative look he’d had on his face before, only more curious this time. 

“Oh, aye,” John forced out. “Thanks.”

“New?”

“What?”

“Are they new?” Leroy repeated, amused by John’s cluelessness. “Your sneakers.” 

John had to look down at his feet just to remind himself what he was actually wearing. Of course - they were those fucking Balenciagas he’d bought with the very intention of this exact scene playing out. He was regretting it now. “Got them the other day, yeah.”

Leroy nodded, pulling his lower lip into his mouth between his teeth. John had to make all the effort in the world not to watch too closely but Leroy was aware of the nervous energy coming off him. John was convinced he’d been found out; there was no point in acting otherwise.

“We haven’t seen each other for a long time,” Leroy declared. 

What the fuck was he playing at? John shrugged, trying to loosen himself up. “No, we haven’t, have we?” 

“You haven’t been playing much.” 

“Well neither have you,” John shot back. 

“You’re in a mood today.” 

John felt himself fall apart at the seams. The last thing he wanted was for Leroy to be watching him so closely, devoting so much attention to him; not that he had to look too hard to figure out John was pissed off.

“Well what’s new?” John shrugged, motioning to the room around them. “Been stuck in here again, haven’t I?” 

Leroy took a step closer. John had turned his face so their eyes were unable to meet, but Leroy continued to gaze at him, tutting gently under his breath.

“No, it’s not that. It’s something else, I think.” 

Was it Leroy’s presence, or the regretful sex he’d had at the weekend with fucking Chilwell, or the meds in his system? Take your pick Leroy, John wanted to scream. If it was any other person saying such brazen things to his face he’d have thought about knocking them out by now. 

“I can see it in your eyes. What are you upset about?” 

“Upset?” John retorted. “I’m not bloody upset.” 

Leroy retreated from where he’d been stood. He looked down at his trainers as they scuffed against the mats, his feet finally landing him directly in front of John. They’d both found the audacity to stare each other dead in the eyes. If looks could kill, Leroy would’ve been six feet under by now. 

“Ilkay told me about your medication. For your anxiety.” 

Of course. Of course Leroy knew about that. He and Gundo were best buddies, weren’t they? 

“Did he now?” John mused, trying to keep a lid on the rage coursing its way through his veins. “And who told him? ‘Cause I don’t remember him being there.” 

Leroy was unfazed; he’d probably been expecting a much more animated reaction. He was practically taunting John, after all, wasn’t he?

“Jesus,” he muttered, forcing a smile of pity. “You’re so defensive. You’re not the only one, John.”

John might’ve asked what the fuck Leroy meant if he was certain his voice wouldn’t tremble as he spoke.

“I think we might share the same therapist. His name is Callum, right?”

His blood ran cold. “You taking the piss, Leroy?”

Leroy was a serious, sincere lad, at least compared to the rest of the squad, a result of his German sense of humour. It was crystal clear now that he wasn’t fucking about. “I wish I was joking. Vinny recommended him to me too.” He paused and bowed his head, acknowledging the admission he’d just made. “If you ever want to talk, John, you have my number.”

It was all getting a bit too much for him. “Think I’m alright actually,” he snapped, moving towards the exit. 

“Ganz wie du willst,” Leroy called out.

They’d always played this game. Leroy would make a comment in German and John had to try to guess what it meant. More often than not it had been a way of flirting, or they’d been taking the piss out of someone. But this time John had no idea. He just knew it was bad. 

He stopped in his tracks, scoffed, and glared at Leroy from the corner of his eye. “And what’s that mean, eh?”

“Suit yourself, I think, is how you’d say it, John.”


	5. villa away - part II

Dusk was falling over Villa Park as the two teams took their places on the pitch. It was so cold that chills were running the length of John’s body, right from the nape of his neck down through to the tips of his fingers. He was tempted to quickly gnaw holes in the ends of his underarmour sleeves so he could put his thumbs through them but he knew what the backroom staff would tell him: you should’ve worn gloves. Sergio had been smart enough to remember that rule.

Kevin was hanging by John’s side, only moving his hands away from his hips to swipe at his increasingly reddening nose. “Pep was right. They’re setting up with five at the back,” he commented, nodding towards the formation Villa were beginning to linger in.

He’d have the time to bite holes in his sleeves as well, John thought, because the ref was halfway down the pitch fucking up the coin toss by somehow throwing it behind himself. David chuckled politely at the ref’s clumsiness, but John noticed the opposition team’s captain didn’t seem too best pleased.

It was the first time John had seen Grealish since the night they’d stayed up and messaged one another until an ungodly hour. They’d had no communication since, so John had let it go. It had been nothing more than a friendly conversation between friends, and that was that.

Despite his bitterness he’d been put off by lads altogether since the Chilwell incident, quite frankly. That twat hadn’t been able to stay out of his DMs. At this point John had left him on read God knows how many times, hoping he’d catch the hint. He just didn’t know what more he could do, especially with the insurmountable fear of anything to do with him being bent becoming public knowledge. He’d have been able to deny it before, maybe shrug it all off by saying people were just running their mouths. But now he’d actually had a dick in his arse, and there was no escaping that, was there?

Grealish looked fucking fit, though. Only he could pull off the two-sizes-too-small shitty Kappa claret and blue kit, and his hair was looking good, lined with just the right amount of gel so his head didn’t look like a fucking helmet. Chilwell needed a reality check on that. His barnet was shit.

John felt a hand smack the back of his head. “Ow, the fuck’d you do that for Kev?” he whined, distancing himself from his teammate.

“You go into your head at the worst moments. Focus, John, fucking focus, man!”

He wasn’t wrong. They should’ve given Kev the captain’s armband as soon as Vinny had left them high and dry. David wouldn’t dare yell at John like that, but that was only because he was too nice. There was a ruthlessness to Kevin that John appreciated, especially at this point in time. He needed to focus.

The ref had sorted himself out and City were set to take the kick-off. John reckoned they had a decent chance at a straightforward win if they could break down Villa’s backline. It would be a bonus if he and Dinho could keep things solid at the back. Pep had ranted and ranted about Grealish in the changing room, insistent that they had to stop him from getting into the tricky little positions he was good at finding. As the centre-half on the right, John was naturally the main man for that job. Being the liability that he was, though, as well as fancying Grealish, meant he doubted he’d succeed.

Who was he kidding? They’d walk this shite. Danny fucking Drinkwater was on the pitch. John envisioned himself in a similar place in five years - somehow still starting for a Premier League club, clinging on to the earlier successes of his career, even if the earlier successes of his career were practically inexistent.

The whistle blew. All the adrenaline that had been brewing in John’s body for the past couple of hours did him good, and in the first five minutes that Villa had possession he kept things steady at the back despite the couple of shots they managed to make.

As usual, Pep was right. He was right about Grealish causing them problems; the lad was putting so much work in, sprinting from one side of the pitch to the other, sometimes defending, more often leading the attack. John never felt more than ten feet away from him. And when the ball was at his feet and he raised his head, hoping to search out Gabi or Serge, Jack came closer, pressing John again and again and again.

It was after Riyad’s second goal about twenty minutes in that John first felt himself get shoved. Someone’s body knocked into his, causing him to stumble over his feet. When he recovered and glanced around everyone was minding their own business, chasing the ball. Was it Kev? Had he meant it as a way of telling John to get his arse in gear? Or maybe it had been Mendy, his boisterous gait meaning he hadn’t even noticed. It didn’t matter anyway. Sergio had put a third away.

But John was certain he was being shoved on purpose when it happened a second time. He’d gone to the other end of the pitch, anticipating the corner Kev was about to take. The ball was put out again, going behind for a goal kick. Sergio was to his left, Mendy to his right, and Rodri right in front of him, something John was thankful for as he felt another forceful shove in his back. He didn’t trip up like he had earlier on, instead saved from that fate by Rodri’s body acting as a cushion.

John turned around, out for blood. The only person close enough was Grealish. He was glaring at John in between fixing his socks around his shins - and he was really, truly, glaring, as if he’d had his puppy run over, or something similarly heinous. John’s obviously puzzled expression did nothing to force an explanation out of the man.

“You alright?” John managed to choke out.

He wasn’t really asking if Jack was alright. He was asking why the fuck he’d shoved into him, and Jack knew it.

John was left speechless as Jack rolled his neck, sneered, and directed the spit he’d gathered in his mouth onto John’s left boot.

That was it - Grealish deserved head-butting for that, and for once John was daring enough to try it. But Pep was screaming at John from the bench, in disbelief the defender was still so far up the pitch and out of position now the ball was back in play. Kev yelled at him too, sounding more disappointed than anything. He skulked back to the edge of their box, shell-shocked.

John’s head had gone after that. He was thankful Villa’s heads had gone too, because it meant they hardly got a touch of the ball, and John didn’t have to worry about making a challenge on Grealish. The second he had the ball, though, Jack was right on him, sprinting towards him as if he was going to lunge in with both feet. John had never been so glad to hear the whistle for half-time.

“The fuck is number ten doing?” Rodri scoffed in the tunnel, jogging up behind John. “All over you, vicious.”

“You noticed?” John asked, relieved he hadn’t just been imagining it all.

“I fucking noticed. He pushed you into me.”

Listening to Pep’s frantic half-time talk was a task for John. Instead he found himself racking his head for reasons as to why Grealish seemed to hate him so suddenly. Maybe he really thought John was going to beg Southgate to reserve a spot on the national team for him and he’d realised he’d been taking the piss all this time? No, wouldn’t be that. Could someone have made something up, some shite about something John had said about Jack? Surely not. He’d never spoken to anyone about him, too worried he’d blurt out how much he fancied him.

Grealish was even worse in the second-half. A mere five minutes in and he’d started on Sergio, calling him a fucking prick. John was proud of the little Argentine, though, because he turned around with his palms outstretched and pushed Grealish in his chest. Maybe Jack wasn’t angry at John alone; he was captaining a side that was four-nil down after fifty minutes, after all.

That theory was disproved when Grealish passed by and muttered “cunt” under his breath with just enough ferocity to ensure John knew it was directed at him. They spent the rest of the game throwing dirty looks at one another. John reckoned it would’ve escalated into something more if he hadn’t made an otherworldly effort to stay at least five metres away from Jack at all costs.

It wasn’t normal pitch trash talk, though. Not by any means. John didn’t do that sort of thing anyway, never got into scraps - well, bar against Panama at the World Cup, but he got to thinking he should do that more often, because that was the last time he scored too.

Full-time eventually raced around. It was an easy six-one win and yet Pep was already having a go in the tunnel, pissed off they’d conceded so late on. Hadn’t been John’s fault, thank fuck, but a clear mistake by Nico after he’d been subbed on. Ha. John wished he didn’t revel in the fact it made him look ever so slightly better.

Head down, he began to make his way into the tunnel alone. Rage flashed through him like lightning once again as he caught sight of Grealish a few steps ahead of him. Should he say something? Would it be worthwhile? The overwhelming sense that he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t told him what to do.

“Here, Grealish—” he called, storming up behind him. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

  
Jack glanced dismissively at John and sneered, baring his teeth. “Was wondering when you’d finally show some bottle and pipe up.”

“Have I fucking missed something, mate?”

  
John was so overwhelmed by the confrontation that when Jack’s wrist wrapped around his own and yanked him sideways he couldn’t protest it. They burst through into an empty physio room which was bare except from a treatment table and a few neat shelves lining the walls. 

With a flick of his wrist Jack locked the door behind them. John stared at him, speechless. There was a calmness that seemed to have suddenly fallen over Jack that made John nervous, very fucking nervous.

“What the fuck is this about?” He was really panicking now, like, heaving-chest-and-nauseous-stomach-panicked. “Why’ve you brought us in here?”

Jack scoffed as if he was appalled John had even dared to ask. “Are you having me on?”

“Are you fucking having me on?” John asked, one notch off shouting. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” 

“Your head’s so fucking far up your arse that you have no idea what I’m on about, do you?”Jack responded, coming closer to John. “Do you?” 

The fear of a physical confrontation made John back down. Sure, he had head and shoulders on Grealish, and in the heat of the moment he reckoned he could probably take him, but he was far too puzzled to fight the lad. They were getting nowhere shouting at one another.

“No, Jack, I don’t know what this is about,” he insisted. There was something about Jack’s expression that made him sympathise, even feel a bit sorry for him. “Mate, honestly... what’s up? Have I done something?”

Silence. So he had done something.

“Jack. What have I done?”

“What have you done? I’ll tell you what you’ve fucking done. You slept with Ben, didn’t you?”

John thought his head might explode. Pure dread surged through his limbs, the colour draining from his face. Without thinking he lunged forward and grabbed the collar of Jack’s shirt, causing him to lose his footing and scramble to regain his balance. John kept ahold of him through the struggle, his grip so strong that Jack was forced to give in and hover a few inches in front of John’s face. 

“Who the fuck told you that?” 

“Who the fuck do you think told me?”

“What, and you’re some kind of bigot, fucking disgusted by it or something?” John seethed. “Gonna fucking tell everyone, are you?”

Jack’s attitude transformed from one of pure anger to what John could only decipher as shock. Then his expression cracked, and Jack started laughing. The laugh was grating; a high-pitched kind of cackle that was entirely at John’s expense. His head began to spin violently, the walls of the room closing in, so he let go of Jack and took a few steps backwards. 

Jack soon stopped laughing. He stood tall and stared right at John, right at him, as if he was looking into his soul. This was so cruel. So, so cruel, John thought, holding back tears. 

“Jesus... fucking... Christ,” Jack eventually sighed, exaggerating every vowel he spoke. “I know you like to think it, but the world doesn’t revolve around you, John. I was fucking shagging Ben. I thought we were fucking seeing each other. Thought there was feelings, and all that shite.”

His entire body burned so hard with relief that John reckoned there was a good chance he might’ve pissed his pants. 

“You... you like lads?” he gawped, the words barely registering above a whisper. 

“‘Course I fucking like lads!” Jack snapped, throwing his arms up. “For a bender yourself Stonesy you are pretty fucking dim, aren’t you? Never mind even being a bender. Surely you can tell from a fucking mile off that I like lads?” 

John wandered around the side of the treatment table, still reeling from the relief that Jack wasn’t plotting to spill his biggest secret. 

“I had no idea.” 

“No idea about what?” Jack questioned, raising his voice. “No idea that I liked lads, or no idea that I was fucking Ben at the same time that he was fucking you!”

John felt like he’d been slapped across the face. 

“Mate, I... both of those things,” he murmured, returning Jack’s intense stare. He didn’t believe him, did he? “I had no idea about you and Ben, Jack, and I swear it. Swear on my life, on me Mam’s too. I should’ve never... I don’t ever do this. Don’t sleep with lads.”

Jack sneered at that. “Oh, so you’re just curious, eh? Is that it? Everyone’s just fucking curious. I was just fucking curious until I started to like him.”

The room was spinning again and John had to grab onto the treatment table to stop his legs from buckling beneath him. He was being hit with too much information. Jack knew that John had slept with Ben - bad. Jack had been sleeping with Ben too - very bad. But that meant Jack was gay as well - great. Jack, however, had developed feelings for Ben - terrible, and very questionable. Jack now quite clearly hated John - not a surprise. What could he say? Sorry might be a start.

“I’m sorry. That’s all I can tell you,” John admitted, raising his head to look over at Jack. “I didn’t want to— didn’t mean to get with Ben. I don’t like the lad too much, don’t have feelings for him. At all.”

Jack gazed back at him, silent, stood there with his arms folded over his puffed-out chest. He looked beautiful, which just added onto the pile of hurt John was feeling. There was something about him, an air to him, that pulled everyone who passed by into his orbit.

“I just needed to see what it was like,” John breathed out, not sure where all this vulnerability was coming from. Hot tears pricked his eyes, and it wasn’t long before he felt the first droplet stream down his flushed cheek. “And now I’ve fucked it. Fuck,” he muttered, looking helplessly at Jack through his wet lashes. “Fuck. I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I?”

John turned his back on Jack and started crying. Each cry was a proper sob that brewed in his chest, just like the ones he sometimes had in the shower, or in bed under his pillow when he couldn’t drift off. How fucking humiliating, he thought, crying even harder as he wrapped his arms around himself.

He’d expected Jack to bolt, or even to start laughing at him out of second-hand embarrassment. But the man was at his side before John could register it, rubbing soothing circles over his back and hushing him gently.

“Eh, eh, not here, alright? Breathe, John,” he insisted, his free hand caressing the side of John’s face. “It’s alright bud, it’s alright.”

Through the sheen of tears covering his vision John looked down at Jack. They were unbearably close, and the way Jack’s thumb continued to wipe away tears from John’s cheekbones stirred something deep in his stomach. Jack wasn’t embarrassed, or amused, or even confused by John’s pathetic breakdown. He looked upset, upset for John. His eyebrows had fallen over his brown eyes, his irises appearing even darker than usual as he studied John’s face. He wasn’t upset because he’d been wronged - he was simply upset because John was upset.

Soon enough John’s breathing slowed and the tears stopped snaking their way down his face. Jack dropped his hand from John’s neck and returned it to rest in its usual place on his slack hip. John missed the contact already.

“Come on, that’s it,” Jack nodded, his body visibly relaxing in time with John’s. “They’ll be looking for you in a minute, won’t they?”

  
“Aye, only so Pep can cut my fucking balls off,” John sniffled, clearly still feeling sorry for himself. “Think I’d rather be in here.”

  
“Na, come on,” Jack smirked. He leant forward and playfully punched John’s arm, the gesture almost a plea for John to look at him, to return the attention Jack had just given out. “I thought you had a decent game, actually.”

John said the first thing that came into his head. “You always have a decent game.”

“Yeah, well, when you concede six it doesn’t really matter what kind of game anyone has,” Jack murmured softly, a smile ghosting over his lips.

As much as John wanted things to stay like that, for Jack to continue smiling, he couldn’t afford to beat around the bush. “What did Chilwell tell you?”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the floor. “I asked to see him last week sometime. He’s been a bit distant lately so I thought he were just busy or something, just distracted. Anyway, he told me he thought we should leave it. Just be mates. ‘Course I had a go at him, asking what I’d done wrong. Got it into my head that he’d been seeing someone else. Was right, it seems.”

“We were never seeing one another. I only slept with him the once, and I was pissed, and honestly, it was nothing special.”

“Yeah, well it was obviously special for him, ‘cause he’s got you on his mind so much that I’m nothing but an afterthought.”

John felt rage flood through his veins again. It wasn’t directed at Jack this time, though, but Ben instead. How could Jack be an afterthought to anybody?

“Well forget it, ‘cause I don’t like him like that.” John paused and met Jack’s stare, knowing he was struggling to trust anything being said. “I don’t, Jack.”

Jack scoffed bitterly. “Just using him for a shag then, were you?”

“Fucking hell. I don’t know how long this has been going on between you but I’m new to this,” John sighed. He’d just cried in front of the person he fancied the fuck out of. He may as well go the extra mile and get it all off his chest. “I don’t wanna like lads but I do, and it’s been difficult to get my mind off it lately. I thought sleeping with Ben would do something to me, like, I don’t know, repulse me. Or at least it might make me feel more at peace with the idea of being... fucking bent.”

“But it hasn’t,” Jack murmured, not asking, but finishing it off for John with his own kind of certainty instead.

“No, it really fucking hasn’t, like,” John agreed, growing confident with the realisation Jack understood where he was coming from. “I actually hate myself more for it and now I’ve got myself in this mess. I’m sorry, mate. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but I regret it.”

Jack was quiet for a moment, staring at his boots, before he glanced up and narrowed his eyes at John. “Would you have regretted it if I hadn’t found out?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No, it’s not,” John told him. “Everyone wants their first time to be decent, don’t they? That was the first time for me, Jack. First time with a lad. It’s daunting, and it’s fucking career-threatening, too. It’s funny though ‘cause there’s some lads I really like, and Chilwell just isn’t one of them. Probably wouldn’t have regretted it if it was with a lad I liked. So I’m not lying. Wouldn’t lie to you.”

John had knocked Jack speechless. His lower lip hung open, his gaze focused on something faraway and inexistent. That meant a lot to John, because he knew Jack finally understood him.

The moment was tarnished by harsh banging against the door.

“Jack?” It was a voice that John recognised. Mings. Why John felt a sudden tinge of jealousy in his stomach, he didn’t know. “You in there?”

As if someone had flicked a switch on in his brain, Jack instantly snapped back to his usual self. “Yeah, I am mate! Comin’ now. Was just looking for summat I left lying about before kick-off!” 

The handle rattled. John swore he could’ve thrown up then and there for the fear of being found out, but he remembered Jack had been smart enough to lock them in.

“Why’s the door locked?” Mings yelled, continuing to rattle the door. “You alright in there?”

“It’s a dodgy door this one, innit?” Jack shouted back.

He turned to John and exhaled a sigh, rolling his tongue over his lower lip. “Do us a favour and wait in here for a minute after I’ve gone so we don’t come out together.”

“Aye, mate.” Wow, he’d done a shite job of not sounding extremely disheartened.

Jack looked like he was fighting internally with himself, trying to stop whatever it was lined up on the tip of his tongue from coming out. “I won’t say a word, John,” is all he offered in the end.

“I know you won’t,” John nodded, forcing a smile, “otherwise I’ll be dragging you under the bus with me too.”

“Don’t think I’d mind that too much,” Jack murmured, eyes twinkling from the level of secrecy that they now shared. “You’re a soft lad Stonesy, aren’t you?”

John waited in the room for five minutes after Jack had gone. It gave him a chance to replay whatever the fuck had just happened over and over in his head, and he hoped it’d given him the chance to get out of a bollocking from Pep, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we exclusively ship john x jack now. also shout out to jack for being a dickhead during a global pandemic and government imposed lockdown and doing what he did because it has provided yours truly with a future chapter, class act mr grealish, hope you've learned your lesson and stay inside from now on boo


	6. real madrid away

John stood in the reception of the training offices and grimaced at the scene around him. As he’d acknowledged many times before, he was no fashion expert. But double denim had always been a fucking wrong’un, hadn’t it? The club’s Dsquared collaboration had gone too far this time. 

The squad were due to board a coach to take them to the airport. From there they’d fly to Madrid where they were set to face the Spanish overlords of the Champions League, and this was only the round of sixteen. On top of that the club was still reeling from the shock of being slapped with the punishment of getting booted from all European competitions for two years. 

John had mostly kept his head in the sand whenever he’d heard it mentioned, but the sense was that Khaldoon seemed confident in getting it overturned. ‘Overturned’, also known as, ‘willing-to-pay-whatever-bullshit-amount-of-fines-UEFA-could-throw-their-way’. He didn’t really give a shit about it all past the fact it would mean David, Dinho and Sergio would end their careers without a Champions League trophy. Criminal. 

“Right, we’re all here, so go wheel your cases out and start getting on the bus, lads.”

The PR department had called the press. There were ten or so paps on the other side of the car-park, poised and ready to document the crimes to fashion the club were committing. Sergio took the brunt and volunteered to be first out, but in John’s estimations, he looked rather good. The dark-wash denim jeans, matching unbuttoned shirt and black t-shirt fit the little Argentinian well. 

The outfit wasn’t looking so effortless on the rest of the squad. Phil looked like his Mam had dressed him. On the flip-side, David looked like a proper Dad. Kev had refused to wear the smart leather shoes they’d been offered and had instead donned his Vapourmax, but they looked funny with the straight-cut jeans ending halfway up his shin. 

John buttoned his shirt up halfway and decided to grin and bear it. He kept his head firmly down as he followed Kevin out and onto the coach, the pair of them finding seats halfway back just in front of the gaggle of Brazilians who liked to sit together.

“These jeans go right up my arse,” someone bellowed from the front of the bus. Wouldn’t take a genius to work out that the complaint came from Walker. 

He was one of the last few onto the coach. John had heard him before somewhere out of earshot moaning about being dressed up, and how he wasn’t sitting on a plane in those jeans. Being one step ahead, John had brought a change of joggers in his hand luggage for that exact reason.

He watched from his seat as Kyle clambered up the aisle. John wasn’t sure they’d even looked at one another today, let alone said hi. As Kyle came closer and their eyes met, John was reminded why. They didn’t talk much anymore. Casual as ever, Kyle passed by where John and Kevin were sat to find Bernardo and Mendy. 

Making the way to their gate and boarding the plane was more of a hassle than usual. Everyone had got sick of the outfit and had started pulling it apart, leaving them all looking mismatched but still coordinated like a terrible nineties boyband. Pep was already in that headspace where he couldn’t relax, pacing and muttering to himself about God knows what. John was glad to get on the plane and put some distance between himself and his manager. 

John had sat next to Kevin again, who’d been insistent on taking the window seat so he could have a nap. That was fine by John who put his AirPods in and scrolled through Spotify. 

Having access to WiFi on flights was a godsend. It meant John could reply to Jack. Jack, who he’d been talking to almost daily over text ever since they’d last seen each other at Villa Park. John wasn’t sure what they were doing; were they just mates having good conversations, or was this something more, a lifeline between the two of them now they shared such a vital secret?

They could talk about everything and anything. After a tough result or at the end of a long day they’d tell each other every little detail, every emotion felt. John had never been so open about his feelings before, even if he was still trying to act hard so Jack would think exactly that of him. 

Jack had admitted to John that he was worried about his situation at Villa. He wanted to stay - he wanted to play in the Premier League too - but relegation was looming. United and Chelsea were both after him; it was the fear of whether either would come through on their promises that was eating him up. And he wanted to play for England more than anything, but he didn’t know what more he could do to prove his worth.

John counteracted Jack’s anxieties with his own. The fear of being sold and the fear of never getting an England call-up again. It seemed a dire state of affairs but they both managed to make each other feel like it didn’t matter at the end of the day, like there were more important things to fret about. There was, in the way that they were both in the public eye while being closeted, but that was the one thing they never really mentioned.

Halfway through the flight John felt Kevin nudge his arm. The Belgian’s eyes flickered open, bits of sleep lining his short blonde eyelashes.

“It’s a shame Leroy’s not here,” he mumbled, still half-asleep.

John thought he’d misheard. “Eh?”

“I said,” Kev groaned, “It’s a shame Leroy is not coming with us to Madrid.” 

John’s blood ran cold. “Why’s it a shame?”

“Well I know Pep has gone mad with the tactics again and he might not have played him anyway, but he’s just that extra something, you know? Like Liverpool last season, or United.”

John stayed quiet and stared forward into the black abyss of the cabin. Kev was right; Leroy certainly was that extra something. Despite knowing it more than anyone John was slowly but surely becoming distracted from the longing he’d felt for his teammate in past seasons. Jack was filling the hole Leroy had dug out in John’s chest. The feeling was more tangible this time, more honest. 

Kevin moaned again; the white glare of John’s phone screen had hit him in the eyes. “Who are you texting?” he asked, covering his face. 

“No-one.” The answer was a touch too quick to not seem suspicious. “Just a mate from back home.” 

“Well, you text them a lot.”

And with that, Kevin placed his head against the window again and drifted back off to sleep. 

-

The squad milled around the hotel reception, hastily waiting for the keys to their rooms. They’d had dinner and consequently had been told to get an early night ahead of the game tomorrow. 

“John and Kyle, your keycards,” came the call John had been waiting for.

John shifted his way past Gabi and took the envelope marked ‘Stones/Walker - 325’. As routine went he opened it up and took one keycard for himself before making his way over to Kyle to hand him the second.

Kyle barely acknowledged John’s presence at first. When he did take the keycard John got no more than a dismissive nod. 

“That alright?” John mumbled, the all too familiar feeling of being pissed off by Kyle closing in.

“Yeah,” Kyle answered, shrugging innocently. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I’m just asking, ‘cause you’re pulling a face.”

“I’m not pulling a face.”

He was, but John dropped it. 

The two of them made their way to the room separately. John clung to Kevin in the corridors like a needy child while Kyle, Benji and Bernardo pissed about getting out of the lift. 

“Text me if you need anything,” Kevin told John before he disappeared into his room, Ilkay following in behind him. 

John’s room was a few doors down. Kyle wasn’t far off, still pratting about with Bernardo who was fumbling to get his keycard to work. With the way Kyle was taking his time it was obvious that he was avoiding John. That’d be kind of fucking impossible to do when they were sleeping in beds five feet apart. 

Still, they were both so stubborn that they somehow managed to continue the awkwardness. Kyle dumped his suitcase at the foot of his bed and got straight in the shower. John sat bolt upright on his mattress and listened to the water running. He knew he couldn’t bear the inevitable confrontation that would happen when Kyle emerged, so he decided to wander downstairs, and if anyone caught him, he’d be under the guise of going to find water. From a proper water cooler, he’d say, you know, none of that bullshit Spanish tap water.

It was fairly warm outside considering it was a February evening. Not quite t-shirt weather yet, but you could definitely get away without a jacket. John watched people scurrying in and out of the reception for a while. There were a fair few he’d like to graft; some Instagram influencer sorts, Spanish mafia types on their business trips. Most of them had cigs or vapes in their hands though, and that put John off them enough for him to quickly become bored. 

He sent Jack a picture of the square outside of the hotel to let him know he’d arrived. A reply came almost instantly. 

How you feeling about tomorrow?

John was supposedly match-fit, but he’d been wobbly in training. He’d got to thinking wobbly was his new norm. It was so shit, though. He was the type of player who wanted to play every single game. He wasn’t content never clawing his way out of the recovery room like Mendy was, didn’t feel more laid-back without any pressure like Leroy had always seemed. 

Don’t think I’ll even play if I’m honest

Nothing lost even if you don’t   
Well I’ll be watching for de bruyne of course

Of course you will  
Want me to introduce the pair of you 

Na  
That would make you feel too important 

Once John grew aware he was grinning at his phone he decided it was time to head back upstairs. Kyle had just finished up in the bathroom as John returned to the room. The lights were dimmed, curtains drawn. It was almost eleven, time to call it a night.

“Alright?” he murmured in greeting, making his way over to his bed.

“Alright,” was the reply. 

Nothing else followed. Fuck that. John couldn’t go on like this for the rest of their time here. 

“Mate. What’s with you, Walks? You’ve barely said a word to me since we left Manchester.” 

Kyle stayed quiet as he rummaged through his already-dishevelled suitcase. “How could I?” he eventually retorted, refusing to look over at John. “You sat with Kevin on the bus, didn’t you?”

“Mate, if you’re that fucking desperate to sit with me, just open your gob and ask.”

“Well I certainly won’t be asking when you’ve got an attitude like that,” Kyle snapped, glaring daggers at John down the length of his nose. 

So they were arguing now, were they? John angrily clambered under his sheets, a safe spot from which to mount his attack. 

“Me? Attitude?” he scoffed. “You taken a look at yourself recently?”

“I have, actually.”

“Yeah, I bet you have,” he sneered, lowering his voice. “You vain fuck.”

Kyle dropped the clothes he’d been holding and reared his head. “Fuck did you just say?”

“Eh?” 

“You just mumbled something under your breath.”

John sighed condescendingly. “No, Walks, I didn’t.” 

“Yes you fucking did,” he insisted. It was clear John had got under Kyle’s skin, had really worked his way into his head. “Always making snide fucking comments under your breath, aren’t you?”

“Right, shut it, Kyle.” Maybe John had taken this a step too far; the feeling of regret was swelling in his chest already. “Can’t be arsed with all this tonight.”

“What do you mean ‘all this’? It’s me, isn’t it? Can’t be arsed with me, can you?”

John scrunched up his face in confusion and stared at Kyle. Christ, the lad had lost his fucking rag. 

“Why are you taking this so personally?”

“You made it personal, John. You paranoid fuck. There,” Kyle stated, jabbing a finger at John. “At least I can say it with my chest.”

John realised he’d lost the argument at that point, whatever the fuck it was that they were arguing about, anyway. Apologise, though? Never. 

“Taking a dig at my mental health now, are we?” he whined, folding his arms over his chest. He rolled onto his side, just about able to make out where Kyle was stood if he glanced over his shoulder. “Nice and mature of you, Ky.” 

“Oh, here we fucking go with the mental health card!” Kyle roared, throwing his arms up. “Maybe if you spoke to me instead of fucking tiptoeing around it and expecting me to just ignore it all I could sympathise!”

They’d still never spoken about any of it. Not after the pill bottle incident in training, not after Leroy’s return, not even after John had wandered back into the changing room post-Villa-away with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands in the aftermath of the Grealish confrontation. It was driving them apart slowly, the lack of communication and honesty. So why John still persisted to lie about it all, he couldn’t say. 

“The last thing I want is your fucking sympathy.” 

“You’re fucking special, you are. The entire world isn’t against you!” Kyle raged, storming over to stand at the end of John’s bed. “Hey! Look at me, you dickhead.” 

John composed himself and slowly shifted his head to the side. Kyle always looked funny when he was pissed off, a little bit like a cartoon character, and that cheered John up slightly. He could be intimidating too, just because of the gait of him, and the fact that he was so careless sometimes he might actually find it in himself to swing on someone. John knew he’d never lay a hand on him though. Knew they were too close for that. 

“Don’t know what you want me to say,” John mumbled. 

“We’re meant to be best mates, John, for fuck’s sake. You know me, know that I’m not a twat. I’m trying to tell you that you can talk to me about things.”

“We don’t have to go through a fucking argument for you to admit that though, do we?” 

“Well you’re not exactly a fucking walk in the park at the minute, John. We hardly speak anymore, don’t text. How’d you think that makes me feel?”

“Fuck’s sake, Kyle. I’ve had a lot on, alright? Not that you aren’t worth my time, ‘cause I… I don’t mean it like that. Like you said, I’m not a walk in the park, am I?”

Kyle shook his head vehemently. “No, John, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you did say it, and it’s true. I’m just trying to sort myself out. I’m trying, alright?”

“And I care,” Kyle grovelled. John didn’t know why, maybe he was just programmed to think so, but he found anyone caring about his mental health hard to believe. “I do, John, so I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that.”

John swallowed his pride and nodded. “I know you do.”

“So tell me,” Kyle sighed. “Come on, what’ve you been up to?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

Kyle’s face dropped. He lowered himself to perch on the end of John’s bed, mouth agape, dark pupils dilated. 

“You’ve shagged someone, haven’t you?” he asked. “And it’s a fucking lad, isn’t it?” 

As distant as they’d become, they still knew each other too well. 

“If I tell you and you breathe a word of it, I’ll fucking kill you, and I mean that Walks,” John threatened, sitting up. “I’ll fucking have you.”

“Oh, I’m shaking in my fucking boots,” Kyle mocked. “You couldn’t harm a fly. So, spit it out then. Who’d you shag?” 

And that was how Kyle came to know of the secret side to the Premier League where it was assumed almost every squad could make up a subs bench of bisexual men. John admitted he’d slept with Chilwell but made certain to gloss over most of the details. 

He also couldn’t help but carry on into how Grealish had found out, and how John had cried tears at the fear of anyone else knowing, but how they’d promised to keep it to themselves. John supposed he’d broken that promise by telling Kyle, but Kyle was safe. He was John’s best mate, and he was one of Dele’s, too. Granted, he was pretty bad at keeping secrets, but he’d kept Dele and Eric’s for so long, and he’d never ever put John in a bad position - at least, not intentionally. 

“Ages ago I said Chilwell was bent,” Kyle declared rather proudly, until he seemed to dip into a silent panic. “Sorry - bisexual, I should say, not bent.”

John would’ve laughed if he wasn’t so exhausted. “You can say bent, Kyle. I’m not gonna cry about it.” Well, he couldn’t promise anything. 

“And I said Grealish was too.” 

“No,” John frowned. “I was the one who said Grealish was gay.” 

“No, I definitely did.”

“Did you fuck! I said it first.” 

“Don’t think you did.”

“Yes, Walks, yes I fucking did! I’ve always hoped Grealish was gay.”

“Hoped?” 

Fuck. John had been caught out there. No point in beating round the bush, he supposed. 

“Yeah, well, he’s fit, isn’t he?”

Kyle didn’t look convinced. “He’s a bit of a twat. And he’s got to be a man-whore. Bet he sleeps around. Well, we know he does. Shagged Lingard’s bird, didn’t he? Then Chilwell too. And, he can’t get an England call-up.”

John desperately wanted to say, ‘well neither can you’, but he held his tongue on that one. “Some might say you actually sound a bit jealous about it all, Walks.”

“Jealous that you fancy Grealish? Like fuck am I jealous. I’m so glad I don’t find men attractive. Look at you, you’re miserable because of it.”

John’s eyes rolled back in his head. Some might also say Kyle sounded very closeted and in denial, but John knew that wasn’t possible. The lad was so self-centred he’d have slipped up somewhere along the way and blurted it out years ago. 

“You’re right that I’m miserable,” John laughed bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m depressed because I’m gay and I’m terrified people will find out, or if I’m just depressed because I’m shite at football and everyone reminds me all the time.”

“You could always come out, and then everyone will forget you’re bad at football because they’re too busy tearing their hair out over the fact you’re gay.”

“Yeah. If being told I should get off the pitch wasn’t bad enough, I could get called a fag as I walk off, too.”

They were trying to joke about it, but it was all hitting a bit too close to home for John. The realisation he’d never be able to have a normal relationship with a man felt so unfair that it made him sick to his stomach. 

“Just think about it,” he murmured to Kyle, leaning back into the safety of his pillows. “I had a quick Google, right, and last year in Britain, seven percent of the population identified themselves as a sexuality other than straight. There’s over five hundred players in the Premier League. Seven percent of five hundred is thirty-five.”

“So you’re saying there’s thirty-five players in the Prem that are gay?”

“No, ‘course I’m not saying that. That’d be an entire club.”

“Spurs.” 

“Yeah, well, they’d be my first bet,” John sneered. “Statistically, though, there’s no way there’s not at least ten that aren’t straight, and are closeted. What other career is there in Europe in the twenty-first century where you’re forced to be closeted?”

“No-one’s forcing you,” Kyle countered.

“No-one’s helping us either. ‘Cause it’d be career suicide, and our career’s are already short enough.”

“Well someone’s got to be the first, don’t they? Or else it’ll never happen.”

John shook his head and started biting away at his nails. “It won’t be me. Del and Eric, eventually, I reckon.”

“Listen to yourself, dying for Dele and Dier to come out so you can stop moping around.” 

“Well what am I meant to do, Kyle?”

“Fucking accept it John,” Kyle hissed. “You know you’re not on your own, don’t you? There’s Dele, and Eric, and now you know about Chilwell and Grealish. And I bet you’ve not spoken about this kind of thing with them.”

John shrugged. He hadn’t, and the thought hadn’t actually crossed his mind. 

“People do give a shit about you John. And you’re not shit at football, so stop banging on about it. Look at your World Cup stats. Two fucking goals for Christ’s sake, and you ran farther than any other player in the whole thing. Everyone knows the quality you have.”

Kyle’s efforts were all going in one ear and out the other. “I’m not even gonna start tomorrow.”

“Neither’s Kun! It doesn’t make you any less of a player,” Kyle scoffed. He was trying, for once. It wasn’t like him to dish out such encouragement; it was usually more effort than Kyle thought anything was worth. “You need to get your arse in gear and put these injuries behind you, then you need to fill yourself with some confidence.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Maybe it is, ‘cause I don’t know what it’s like to have to hide how I feel to my mates. Wouldn’t stop me wanting to play football, though.”

John’s head lulled against the pillow as he gazed at Kyle. “Aye, mate, you’re right.”

“I’m not your Mum, though, so don’t look at me all funny like I am.”

“Not,” John smirked. “You’re a decent agony aunt when you want to be, Kyle. Maybe you should be a coach.” 

“Ha, fuck that. I do have just one bit of advice for you, though.” 

“And what’s that?”

“Just don’t sleep with Grealish, for God’s sake.” 

John was thankful Kyle hadn’t asked him to make a promise on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one is a major mess and just ran away from me as i was writing it but dialogue between John and Kyle is always a pleasure. hope you're all keeping well


	7. wembley cup final

John hadn’t played the game against Madrid. He hadn’t even been on the bench. Sure, it took any pressure off him for what would end up being their biggest game of the season, but the feeling of uselessness was unbearable. The rest of the lads had played by the skin of their teeth. Kev was astonishing, Kyle was thunderous, Rodri immovable, and Gabi simply genius. An away win at the Bernabeu had lifted the entire team. 

But they were never quite out of the woods. Pep’s reasoning behind John’s exclusion in Madrid had been the insistence that he wanted a centre-back rested for the league cup final four days later. 

No matter how much he’d been ‘rested’, John reckoned the fear and adrenaline of a final would always rattle him to the point where he struggled to catch his breath and hide how far he’d bitten his fingernails down. This particular game was making him shit his kecks in more than one way. 

First of all, this was potentially the only trophy City had a real shot at winning this season, and there was no chance in hell they had any excuse for going without a trophy. Secondly, John had been entrusted with a start. It wasn’t as if Pep had many other choices - Aymeric was injured again, Nico had played the full ninety in Madrid, and Ferna was being run into the ground - but that only put more of an expectation on John to deliver. 

And thirdly, they weren’t facing any old side. This was Aston Villa. A Villa that had only just been promoted, a Villa that had a renewed sense of faith, and a Villa that wanted their first major trophy in God-knows-how-many-years more than anything. Not to mention that it was also a Villa whose very boyhood captain John had grown an inexplicable sense of attachment to. 

“I’m not going easy on you,” the voice down the other end of the phone had told him. Yes, they’d progressed to phone calls - Jack had called John by ‘accident’ the night after he’d returned from Madrid, had supposedly ‘sat on his phone at a weird angle’. John wasn’t going to contest that, though. “So you better be on your A-game, John boy.”

John boy. Jack really did fancy himself as Arthur Shelby, didn’t he? Made it a bit weird that John was known as Tommy to many (something Danny Welbeck of all people would like to take credit for), or it was all verging on being a bit incestuous. It probably wasn’t in Jack’s eyes, mind, because he probably didn’t see John as anything other than the unbearable Instagram comment of ‘bro’ anyway.

“So,” Jack continued, “when I put you on your arse there’s no hard feelings, yeah?”

John had chuckled and told him no hard feelings, but he was far too soft for that. And it’d no doubt be the other way around. John was already dreading the need to foul Jack the instant he began approaching the box. 

That’s exactly what Pep told them to do. John’s final order delivered in the dressing room before warm-up was ‘keep an eye on Jack’. He didn’t need to be told twice. 

Villa were already out on the pitch as City emerged from the tunnel, the announcer on the PA system droning on about how many times they’d won the cup. John wasn’t sure how many times he’d played at Wembley - he could count finals and maybe England games, but those times Spurs had used Wembley as their temporary stomping ground made things more difficult to keep track of. 

There was still an ever so slight chill that ran down his spine as he indulged in a glance at the stands and the arches that towered over them, but it was nothing like the first few times. He was an ungrateful little bastard really, wasn’t he? How many other players could say they’d had the honour of playing at Wembley so many times that they’d forgotten the exact number? 

“John, light jog to the other side of the pitch mate, yeah?” 

John turned his head and did his best to appear like he wasn’t a thousand miles away. With a nod he eased himself into a run behind Rodri and tried to keep his eyes trained on the floor in front of him. 

It took two minutes for him to become distracted again. 

Judging by the way none of John’s teammates were chasing the ball that had just rolled past him, one of the Villa players must’ve booted it up to City’s end of the pitch. John was bent-over, stretching his back out, so only the bottom-halves of those around him were in his line of sight. He knew exactly who’d come to retrieve the ball before he’d even got a look at them.

No-one else wore their socks like that. They were barely hitched up around his ankles, just about covering his bus-ticket sized shin-pads. It suited him, really; he made it work. And even if he wasn’t instantly recognisable from the socks, the legs gave him away. John had never found a pair of legs so attractive. The sheer muscle on Jack’s fleshy calves and thighs was accentuated by the layer of hair over his light-brown tan. 

“Alright Stonesy?”

Upon hearing his name John shot up, eyes wide and glassy. 

Jack was in the process of scooping the escaped ball up in his arms. John hadn’t expected him to even acknowledge his presence, let alone say hi. And he hadn’t just said hi, either. He was sporting an unmistakable smirk in between sneaking glances at John, almost teasing him with his gaze. 

John placed his hands on the back of his hips and straightened himself out. “Alright Jack.”

Jack held back a grin and nodded softly before breaking into a sprint, and that was it. He was gone again just as quickly as he came.

“Saw that John,” a voice called out from somewhere not so far behind him. 

Jesus. Walks was swiftly taking it upon himself to become some sort of conscience figure for John. Maybe he was right. It was too risky, wasn’t it? But no-one else was in the same boat as John in the way that Jack was. John couldn’t lose that; it felt like a lifeline for him, a way of keeping his head above water. He wondered if Jack ever felt the same way.

Everything was a blur from warm-up to Pep delivering his final rant in the dressing room. John had lied before when he’d told himself the sensation of walking out onto the Wembley pitch didn’t feel the same as the first few times. It was like an out-of-body experience, especially when a title hung in the balance. 

John did well to keep Jack at arm’s length for much of the first half. Chances were flying John’s way, too, with a number of balls from corners falling to his head but never managing to reach the back of the net. Kun got the opener and Rodri put John to shame with an unstoppable header for the second. They seemed pretty much in cruise control for much of the first half, which John appreciated. The anxiety bubbling under the surface was cooling, creeping away with the more confidence he gained.

As ever, though, it seemed the second he allowed himself to feel even a streak of confidence, the rug was pulled out from beneath him. Quite literally, this time. 

Jack had the ball at his feet just past the halfway line, and there was a gaggle of City shirts trying to fight it back off him again. John couldn’t see properly through the mass of bodies, was lost with what was going on, and yet Jack still managed to string an effortless pass through the countless feet surrounding the ball. 

The ball flew up in the air and John couldn’t count how many Villa players were making runs, but it was more than he’d have liked. Still, it should’ve been easy; it was falling to him, and as soon as he got it on his head he could clear it.

Inches away from making the clearance, his legs gave way out from under him. It was one of those inexplicable things, like an act of God, or a` force of nature. John pathetically tumbled down to the ground, the momentum turning him onto his side. Still, he recovered quickly, rising to his feet again. 

He was just in time to catch sight of the cross coming in, and the powerful diving header Samatta forced into the back of the net. Shit. 

The celebrations from Villa were inexistent. They were still a goal down, still the underdogs. But John had just gifted them that goal. 

Zinchenko and Ferna had been in the box on either side of Samatta, but there was no point in laying blame there. John had fallen - he couldn’t help it - but it was still a classic Stones defensive error, wasn’t it? He was fraught with those kinds of mistakes; it was bred into him, and there was no coaching it out. If they lost this was on him, now. 

He sniffled to himself and pulled up his socks as they went about restarting play. Half-time couldn’t come soon enough. 

Pep didn’t say anything to him in the dressing room. It was tough, but it was better than a bollocking. 

John was half-expecting to be subbed-off in the second-half, but the fourth official’s sign never flashed up with the number five. It was probably lucky he wasn’t, either, because when the eighty-eighth minute rolled around Villa were pushing hard for an equaliser. 

In came the ball from a corner. Engels caught it messily on the side of his head, but he was close enough to the net for it to seem bound for goal. Of all people, Claudio became hero, getting both hands to the ball. It struck his palms and rebounded off the post, where John caught it on its way out and sent it off behind them where no harm could be caused. 

The relief John felt as the final whistle blew was incomparable. It had been a tense, tough ninety minutes. But they were champions again for the third time on the bounce, and it wouldn’t be his fault. It’d be forgotten, hopefully, and he’d had a good game otherwise, hadn’t he?

He almost let out a cheer as Ferna wrapped him in a hug. Somewhat fatefully, the angle at which John’s head had rested on Ferna’s shoulder put something in his view that made his stomach drop.

Jack had battled on to the very last pass, but it was obvious he’d been in pain, that the cramp was killing him slowly. Not to mention the fact he’d got his childhood team so close, and yet so far. He was laid flat out on the ground, back against the turf, knees up to his chest, and his hands covering his face.

Fuck it, John thought. He had to go say something. 

Approaching Jack felt like approaching a dead body. He’d surely tell John to fuck off - and that’d be fine. John would allow him that. But if John was in Jack’s boots he’d secretly be dying for him to come over, to tell him everything would be okay. There was no harm in trying.

“Eh up,” John called as he got closer, making his presence known. He got down on his right knee and used his left to prop himself up as close to Jack as he could. “Now then.” 

The feeling of being so close to Jack was surreal. They could say anything to each other over text, treated one another like best mates, and yet here, now, John had no idea how to console him, how to reach out. Jack looked angelic. He’d ever so slightly moved his hands away from his face so he could discreetly check the man beside him was in fact John, and his chest was heaving, ragged breaths puffing his strong chest out. 

“Come on, Jack. No tears, eh?” John teased, aware he was treading a tightrope. 

It got him a response, though. “Let me alone,” Jack groaned from behind his hands. 

“Give us a smile,” John pleaded, praying playfulness would do the trick. He took a chance and brushed his fingertips over the back of Jack’s palm, a silent message for him to show his face. The sensation of his skin against his was bone-rattling. “Smile, just for me. Promise I won’t tell anybody.” 

“You don’t deserve a smile from me,” Jack retorted, but just as John had hoped, he tentatively moved his hands to uncover his face.

“And why not?” John questioned, gazing down at the sight before him. 

“‘Cause you’re a dickhead, that’s why.” 

“I’m a dickhead? Ouch,” John murmured, loving it really. “You’ve hurt me there, Jack.”

Jack couldn’t resist the wide grin that spread over his face from John’s reaction, revealing his blinding white teeth. “Oh, have I now?” he taunted. “And how’d you think I feel?”

That was a good point, but John was distracted. God, Jack was beautiful. The light hazel lashes that framed his dark eyes, the beads of sweat on his hairline, the freckles that had come out in force in the sun; it was hook, line, and sinker for John. 

He inhaled a sharp breath, and something deep down told him to move in closer to Jack, so he did. “What can I do to cheer you up then?” 

“You could ask me out.”

John thought he was going to choke on thin air. 

“Ask you out?” he spluttered. “Ask you out? What, on a date?” 

“Yeah, on a fucking date,” Jack exclaimed, a fit of laughter brewing in his chest. “You never taken a lad out on a date before?”

“Like fuck have I taken a lad on a date,” John snapped, overcome with panic before realising this was Jack, the same Jack who’d comforted him when he’d cried in the recovery room at Villa Park. “Why, have you?”

Before Jack could fire back an answer Fernandinho appeared over John’s shoulder, peering down at the man on the turf beneath them. He was completely oblivious to the conversation that had been happening, so Jack hid his face behind his hands once more, disguising the smile that John had caused to take place. 

Dinho kept his distance. “You played a very good game,” he told Jack, raising his voice as if the man was on his deathbed. 

Jack exhaled a dramatic sigh, playing it up for John’s amusement. “Thanks mate. You too.” 

His hands remained firmly over his face. Dinho shot John a baffled look, wondering if that was going to be the extent of their interaction. All John could do was hold back a laugh and shrug. As ever, Dinho didn’t actually give a shit, more than happy to stroll over to the next Villa player to offer his condolences. 

Jack’s fingers shifted to reveal his glimmering eyes. “He buggered off yet?” 

“Yeah. He can’t remember your name, by the way. Calls you pretty boy.”

That was partly a lie. They all called Grealish pretty boy, a nickname borne out of Pep’s countless rants of praise for him in the post-match pressers. 

“Pretty boy, eh?” he chuckled, pressing his tongue into his cheek so deliberately that John knew Jack wanted him to notice. “I don’t mind being called that. Thought out of everyone on the pitch you’d be the pretty boy, though.” 

Eager to deflect the compliment out of shyness, John returned to what he hoped hadn’t just been Jack taking the piss. “So where we going on this date, then?” 

The edges of Jack’s lips perked up. “Ah, it’s your responsibility to pick that.” 

“Do I have to pick you a bunch of fucking flowers as well, Lady Grealish?”

“Na,” Jack grinned. It was that faraway, mischievous sort of grin John loved seeing on his face. “I’m not fucking bent.” 

“‘Course you aren’t, mate,” John mused, holding back a grin of his own. But fuck sarcasm. He was shitting it again. “You being serious, though?” 

“Yeah, I’m being serious. If you’re up for it, I’d like us to do something.” 

John’s entire body felt as if it’d been set alight. Jack liked him, and fucking hell, he liked Jack. 

“Yeah, pretty boy,” John nodded, “I think I’m up for that.” 

“Well alright then, soft lad. You’ve got yourself a date.” 

They gazed at each other for a few moments, a comfortable silence enveloping them in their own little world. The eighty-thousand fans around them were forgot, just a figment of the imagination from the second John found himself lost in Jack’s eyes. He could get used to this. 

Soon enough Kyle appeared and went about breaking it up. He clapped John on the back and held out his hand, pulling him from his knees into a celebratory hug.

Kyle’s lips brushed John’s ear. “Getting cozy there.” 

For once John didn’t feel instant fear by the suggestion that someone might’ve noticed something like that. “Was I?”

“Yep. Everyone’s talking about cracking open the champers and you’re on your hands and knees hanging over Grealish.” 

John supposed that concept shouldn’t exhilarate him as much as it did. He pulled away and took another glance down at Jack. The man hadn’t moved, instead choosing to watch John and Kyle with a placid look on his otherwise exhausted face. 

“Well help him up then, Walks,” John ordered loudly, smirking at Jack as soon as Kyle turned his back and could no longer see his face. “I couldn’t convince him.” 

John was beaming for the cameras as he held up the cup with Kyle, and he yelled with glee as Mendy poured champagne down his back.   
John felt bad celebrating when he knew how hard Jack had fought for it. It was strange to admit but John had never felt bad for their opponents before, even though he knew how crushing a loss could be. He was already sharing emotions with Jack, already feeling his pain. Fucking hell, he was in deep. 

He pondered on the thought of whether he should send Jack a text on the coach ride home. He figured Jack was already sick of the sight of him, though, and John always appreciated time to himself after a loss.

Instead he bundled up his track jacket and put it against the window in order to rest his head, knackered. Just as he felt himself drifting off his phone vibrated against his thigh. The glow of his screen presented him with one of the best things he’d read in a while. 

Miss you already soft lad x


	8. wednesday away

John had been told Pep wanted to speak to him alone in his office after training. That was cause enough to put anyone on anxiety medication.

After he’d showered and changed John had gingerly knocked on his manager’s door and taken a seat opposite the man perched behind his desk. He’d been in Pep’s office once or twice, but never for more than a minute at a time. 

The wall to the left of them framed a large window that looked out onto on of the training pitches, and the one to the right was practically a hall of fame; anyone who was anyone in the world of football had an image up there, grinning next to Pep, usually holding a trophy. John was in one or two of the pictures mind, so he reckoned that was an achievement of sorts. 

Pep was pissing about with some cables, trying to get his laptop to work. It made John weirdly anxious. Players usually didn’t have one-on-one’s with their coaches like this, or at least, not with Pep. Southgate always liked to sit you down and make out like he was interested in your personal life when really all he was trying to do was evaluate how badly you’d take getting dropped from the squad. John figured Pep wouldn’t care to be as discreet as that. 

“How’re you feeling, John? Better?” 

John swallowed and forced a smile. Injury talk. Not a good start. “Yeah. Feel decent after Wembley, yeah.”

“You can play against Sheffield?”

Was he fucking asking, or telling him? As good as he was, John was of the opinion Pep still couldn’t speak English properly, and he’d take that to the grave.

“Uhm, yeah?” 

“Good. So you will play against Sheffield on Wednesday.” 

That settled that, then. Decent. It wasn’t quite a Prem game yet, FA cup this time, but another start was what John needed to keep the momentum going.

“So,” Pep began, crossing his fingers and placing his hands on the desk in front of him, “we’re going to buy a new centre-half in summer. I think that’s clear, Vinny gone, Aymeric injured, having to play Dinho all the time. Eric is top, top quality, so he is available. But Nico could go. I know Nico maybe wants to go. And you, John? I don’t know about you?”

Why was he asking this, and why now? Surely they were thinking of letting him go, or else he wouldn’t have bothered to ask. John was happy playing for City - who wouldn’t be at this point in time - and he still had a good couple of years on his contract. 

He wasn’t thick. He thought about his career all the time, but actually approaching the issue verbally had very quickly bruised his ego. He didn’t want to be a third-choice centre-back. He wanted to play every game, wanted to play for England, and during the World Cup had even dreamed he might wear the captain’s armband for both club and country one day. What had happened in the short space of two seasons to get him to a point where he believed there was no chance it’d ever happen? 

“Well… do you want me here?”

John wondered where he’d grown the balls to say that.

Pep chuckled at first, impressed by the audacity of the question. But he was soon stroking at his greying beard and gazing out of the window, thinking of how he could tell John to fuck off in as polite a way as possible. It was inevitable, wasn’t it? Aymeric came first and if they were getting a new centre-back John would be permanently relegated to third-choice. 

“I’ve always liked you, John. And defend you. They’re harsh on you, and you… you take to heart, because you care, and you know you can do better some of the time. But everybody faces that. I want you here. I love you and Aymeric, together. But injuries? You’re like Vinny, so many injuries.”

Injuries was probably the only thing that could connect John and Vinny. Vincent had all of John’s confidence in his little finger. 

“Yeah, I’m injured a lot. I know.”

“This summer, you could go to the Euros. You could have an amazing tournament, like your World Cup, but you could come back tired. Exhausted, again. And if you’re injured?” 

Pep paused dramatically. John was gormless, wondering if he was supposed to produce an answer. 

“But what if you come back and you’re amazing? And I maybe lose you because you went away when you should have stayed?” 

This was all a bit too philosophical for John’s liking. “What seems more likely?” he shot back. 

Pep cracked a smile. He’d finally got to the point where he understood the typical British kind of self-deprecation, the type John used constantly. 

“Why do you beat yourself up so much?” he asked, leaning forward over his desk. “Where has the idea come that you’re so bad, John? If you were so bad you wouldn’t be here. Okay? Wouldn’t be playing for me. You would not have won all you won, the trophies. I know what the press does, okay? And the fans. I play at Barcelona, so I know. The fans here love you when you compare to Barcelona. But it’s not me. It’s you. You cannot let it get to you. You know you can always talk to us about these things.”

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. John was ready to ask who the man across the desk from him really was, and ask what he’d done with Pep. Coming from Pep it meant a lot. Really did. 

“I know,” was all John could bring himself to say, eyes wandering off to focus on the pitch outside the window. He couldn’t get comfortable though, wasn’t here for a therapy session. He was here for business. “Who else is going in summer?”

“I don’t know John,” Pep shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “It’s difficult with the Champions League. The situation we’re in, which we don’t know about yet for sure.”

John swallowed and tried his best to appear nonchalant. “Leroy’s going?”

“Fifty-fifty. What he’s worth, Bayern won’t pay. But we need money to buy the central defender.”

This was how John knew Pep really did like him a bit. Transparency and honesty. John knew better than to push it, but still, he’d never shied away from being reckless.

“Raheem?”

“No, no. He’s staying right here.”

“Mendy?” 

“The players tell you more than they tell me, John,” Pep laughed, shaking his head. “Do you care where they go? We will have European football one day again. You like Manchester, yes?”

“Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“But you have no girlfriend now?” Pep questioned, raising his eyebrows. “You’re free to move, you’re not stuck here.” 

Fair point, John thought, but the notion that Pep was aware of his relationship status made him a bit nervy. “I suppose.”

“So, do you want to stay?”

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? Answer yes, and his future was secure, a spot on the squad for him on a team that had all the quality to continuing winning more titles. As long as Pep thought the same way, mind. 

“I want to stay, but…”

“But?”

But he was suffocating here, wedged in between Leroy, who he couldn’t get over, Kyle, whom he’d drifted away from, Aymeric, who he was secretly envious of, and Pep, who expected so much. He was under so much scrutiny, couldn’t go a game without having his name dragged through the mud. It wasn’t his fault that pundits had bigged him up a few seasons back, claiming he’d become a world-class centre-half. They did it with any young English talent; him, Del, Barkley. They were never going to be world-beaters.

At the root of it all, John wanted to hide. Hide from everyone who’d ever known him, hide from the press and the pundits, and hide out of fear of his secrets spilling to the world. 

What would it do to him if the tabloids found out he’d been taking medication for depression and anxiety, that he was seeing a therapist, that he was bisexual, and that he’d acted on it with another player? Oh, that’d be a big fucking pay-day for the Sun. Front and back page, and a feature from page five to eight. The fall out would be unbearable. 

But if he moved abroad, would it be that big of a deal? If he shifted off into seclusion somewhere in Italy, some club that sat halfway down the table in Serie A, people would forget about him, and the damage would be less, surely? He’d be protecting most of the people he cared about from the inevitable media onslaught as much as he could. There’d be sun and decent pay and less pressure. It might even do him the world of good, like it had with Tripps and his move to Atletico. 

He was ambitious, though, and he loved City. He’d never been lying when he said he wanted to fight for his spot, to win titles. He was well aware he’d never be Vinny, never have a place in the fan’s hearts like the Belgian legend did, but that wasn’t stopping him from moulding his own success, from doing things he could be proud of for himself. 

“I think I need to think about it,” was his answer. 

-

John hadn’t felt as confident about a game for some time as he was for Sheffield Wednesday. Alright, it was only Sheffield Wednesday, and it was a cup game, but he’d strode onto the pitch with his head held high and a strong sense of determination running through his veins. Pep had fielded their best up-front; both Gabi and Serge, Riyad and Bernardo, Rodri and David. Compare that to the mess at the back - Claudio, Joao, Benji and Nico - not to mention John himself - and Wednesday’s striker’s were probably buzzing. 

It was only early on that John had put a beautiful ball into the box. Gabi had missed it by a mere few inches which was frustrating for all, but none more so than John. 

He was on a strong streak of no goals or assists. Couldn’t be certain, but he was pretty sure the last time he’d assisted was in that FA cup game back in January against Port Vale - he thought he’d scored, with his foot rather than his head as well, but it’d come off that little skinhead Harwood-Bellis instead. There was no forgetting his last goal, even if it was a whole two year’s back. It was in Russia, against Panama. Thirty minutes in, but he’d already opened up the scoring in the eighth too. What he’d give to go back to that. 

John quickly noticed Wednesday’s defence were leaving the back post wide open and he went about taking advantage. An unreal opportunity had flown in from the corner, but he headed it too low, right into the keeper’s hands. Another of his headers went wide. 

At full time he was told he’d had three shots on target that had either been saved or deflected. Altogether they’d had twenty shots, nine on target, and yet only one had gone in; a classic Kun strike. Typical City. 

“Must be fucking allergic to scoring or something,” John muttered as he skulked into the showers. 

The running water that spilled over his aching muscles managed to massage a bit of the mopiness out of him. He tried his best not to visibly slump back into the changing room out of fear one of his teammates would notice and take the piss. The last thing he wanted right now was confrontation. 

He needn’t have worried, though, because the squad’s attention was set firmly on a visitor. Fucking Leroy had swanned into the changing room wrapped up in a big navy puffer coat and had set about congratulating everyone on the win. John hadn’t even known he’d been watching, presumably from the stands. He was still in recovery, still not one hundred percent. Fair play to him for coming down, though, John thought. God knows he wouldn’t have bothered.

Another thing John proved shite at was trying to act like he hadn’t noticed Leroy’s presence. To be fair, the lad was looking a bit tired, and his skin was pale and washed-out from the cold. John couldn’t exactly speak, legs all cut up from the cold and the turf and the studs on Wednesday’s players boots. 

Kyle had made it obvious that he’d shot a few nosey glances over at John, a warning of sorts. He could do one. 

Leroy’s hybrid German-Mancunian accent slipped in and out of John’s earshot as he busied himself by getting dressed. He was pulling his trainers on, almost ready to leave, thinking he could make a dash of it and get out before Leroy reached him. All too typically, he was out of time. 

“John,” came the greeting. No hi, or alright, just the name, spoken warmly and suavely. Leroy took his time to wander over before he sat himself down on the bench right next to John. Right next to him, like, almost thigh to thigh. The cherry on the top was the overly-friendly clap on the knee Leroy gave him, searching to make eye contact. “How you didn’t score, pfft, I don’t know?” he questioned, tone bemused and teasing.

An overwhelming wave of rage crashed over John. Had a simple hand on his knee really got to him that much? He had no idea where it’d all come from, and he was all too aware he should hold his tongue, but a sudden chaos was swirling around them.

“Oh, fuck off, Leroy.”

John wasn’t even appalled by his own words as they leapt from his mouth. The fuck off was a nasty fuck off, not a funny one. No-one but Leroy had heard it, but John wasn’t sure he was satisfied with that. 

“No,” Leroy murmured, confused an understatement. “I meant… I meant you had a good game, buddy.”

That drove John to his feet. “And I meant it when I said fuck off, mate.” 

Their eyes finally met just in time for John to witness the look of shock that plagued Leroy’s face. 

“What have I done?” he asked, mouth agape. 

“Eh - you two—” snapped a voice from the other end of the bench. Kyle had witnessed it all, and others were cottoning on, bewilderment the common expression. “Take it outside,” he hissed, glaring daggers at John. 

“Fine!” John retorted.

If Kyle wanted to be dramatic and escalate the situation there was nothing stopping John from rising to it. He didn’t even know what the problem was; he just knew he felt angry, that something deep inside him felt wrong, and it was all connected to Leroy. Hadn’t he told himself earlier that the last thing he wanted was a confrontation? He didn’t even fucking know who he was anymore, making a scene like this.

As he fled from the changing room John was just able to make out the words Kyle spat at Leroy. “You gonna go after him then?” 

Leroy did in fact follow him, shouting his name down the corridors as John scurried to find an exit door. There was an all-too-familiar physical pain brewing in his chest but he was so irritated by the fuddled emotions he was feeling it was the last on the list of his worries. 

John finally found a door that led outside into an area that looked like a car park for the club’s match day workers. It was completely dark outside now, the night sky only punctuated by the last few supporters making their way home in the distance and a few street lights on the other side of the car park fence. He just needed a breather, a few moments to himself to think through— 

“What the hell is this about?” 

Leroy slammed the door shut behind him and stared at John. He was somewhere halfway between upset and infuriated, and John was just pathetic. He felt so exposed, so vulnerable, nothing but him and his lanky body in the middle of a dark car park. 

“I don’t know, Leroy, I really don’t…” John mumbled, wishing he could provide a better explanation. He could always say something incendiary to provoke a response, couldn’t he? “I really wish you’d just fuck off to Bayern.” Bad choice. Bad fucking choice, John. “D’you know what I mean?” he added, hoping it might soften the blow. 

It hadn’t, because Leroy didn’t even crack a smile. Something had changed about him; his eyes had gone dark, his expression grave and hurt. 

“I have something to tell you, John.”

A volt of pain shot across John’s chest. “I don’t know if I want you to tell me,” he choked out. 

“I have to tell you.”

Visions of Leroy getting on his knees and confessing his love sprang across John’s mind. “You’re getting my hopes up here, Leroy, mate,” he cackled, bitter and terrified. 

Leroy didn’t ask John what he meant by that. He knows, John thought. He knows something. 

“So…” Leroy began, “we have the same psychologist.” 

“Big title for a lad who just lets me rant for an hour and then tells me I’m depressed.” John wondered why he was always his most wittiest when he was in potentially traumatic situations. 

“Maybe,” Leroy winced, choosing not to acknowledge how John had just admitted he was mentally ill. “Well, one afternoon I went to see him, and you must’ve been there in the morning, because Callum mentioned it, just casually. Like, oh, your teammate, John, was here earlier.”

John’s blood ran cold. “So?” 

“Halfway through our session his secretary knocked on the door and said there was an urgent call he had to take. So he excused himself from the room, but he’d left his book open on his chair, you know, the one he makes notes in?”

John forced a fearful nod. This wasn’t the normal Leroy John was used to. Any life he’d had in him, his charisma, his magnetism - it had disappeared, replaced by avoidance and worry and… guilt. That was how John would describe him. He looked guilty. 

“I don’t know what came over me, John,” Leroy whispered. “I’m so sorry. He was gone for so long, and I didn’t have my phone. I left it in the car. His book was right there and I could see your name, written down.” 

The man paused and bowed his head to the floor, unable to look John in the eyes. 

“Your notes, I… I looked at them.”

John’s vision turned black at the edges. He felt as if someone had grabbed hold of him and squeezed him until he couldn’t breathe, until tears flooded his eyes. 

“Are you… are you having a laugh?” John whispered. 

“No.”

“You… you read my notes? Have I got that right?” he questioned, not wanting to believe it. “You read my fucking therapy notes?”

“John, I—”

“You read the fucking notes Callum made about me? My fucking notes from therapy?!” John barked. His voice had cracked, trembling on every word, but he couldn’t care less. “Private fucking notes about me?!”

“John, please, let me—”

“Let you explain?! How can you fucking explain that?”

“I can’t, but, but— but I can say—”

John gathered up all his remaining dignity and looked Leroy right in the eyes. “So you know that I’m bi?”

Leroy was blinking away his own tears. His nostrils were flared, that tell-tale sign he was troubled by something, and his hands were dug firmly in his trouser pockets. “There was something about how… about how you were experiencing romantic relationships with men.”

“Wouldn’t put it quite like that!” John raged, laughing through the sob that threatened to spill out from his throat. 

John couldn’t remember if he’d told Callum about Leroy specifically, but it was obvious Leroy knew anyway. This was it, wasn’t it? This was how it was going to come out. 

“Well fucking spit it out, Leroy, ‘cause it’s all over your face!”

Leroy looked as if he’d been slapped, and he sniffed, crouching down to put his head in his hands. 

“Oh, I don’t fucking think you’re the one that should be crying!” John exclaimed, the image of Leroy acting in such a way forcing him to turn his back. “Just say it! Just fucking tell me what else you read!” 

The sentence came out muffled, but it came out all the same. “There was something about… something about how you felt guilty, because you… liked a teammate—”

“Because I liked you.” 

John turned on his heels and returned Leroy’s gaze. They were both crying, both had tear-stained cheeks and flushed lips. 

“Because I almost fucking fell in love with you, Leroy, is that it?! Is that what you want me to admit?”

“I don’t know what I was doing thinking I could read your notes. I never should have done that— And I feel so, so bad, John—”

“Fucking! Save! It!” 

John didn’t want to put his hands on Leroy, didn’t want to hit him. He didn’t want to go anywhere near him, didn’t even want to look at him. But it hammered his distress home if he did, if he forced Leroy to face how truly upset he was. John wanted Leroy to be as dismayed as he was. It wasn’t possible, but he’d try. He’d fucking try. 

“You’re a fucking… I would never, ever look at your notes from therapy! Never. Would never fuck you over like that. And I’ve spent the last two years of my life coming to terms with the fact I like men, something I realised because of you, and then I had to bury it all and go on like nothing was the matter because I didn’t want to offend you! I respected you, Leroy, and I never, ever expressed my emotions! And this is the way you fucking repay me?! I thought I could at least trust you, thought we were friends!” 

John had just let out a sob as the door on the side of the building flew open and made a loud crash as it collided with the wall. Kyle stormed out, panic quickly taking over as he surveyed the scene before him. 

“John?” he called, not knowing which man he should confront. “What’s going on? Leroy— what’s he said?”

This was it. John could feel an anxiety attack coming on; he’d had them before, mild, mind, and never really ever in the company of anyone, never brought on by something as damning as this. 

“John, mate, what the fuck is going on?”

John ignored Kyle’s frantic questions and made his way over to Leroy, who’d got to his feet. 

“We’re done, Leroy. We’re fucking done,” John seethed, his face uncomfortably close to the other man’s. He’d envisioned this before, but not like this. Never like this. “Don’t breathe a fucking word of this, not to anyone! Not even to your fucking therapist.” 

“John, Johnny,” Kyle pleaded, “What’s going on—” 

“We’re fucking leaving, Kyle. We’re done. We’re leaving!” 

And they did. Kyle followed John back into the changing room, where John bolted straight into a toilet cubicle and rode out the ensuing panic attack alone. The tightness across his chest made him feel like he was having a cardiac arrest. Kyle was outside the door, and soon came Kev, Kun, and David, but he couldn’t open up, not even to Sergio, who he’d trust with his life. He wasn’t sure he even wanted a life anymore. It all hurt a bit too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah I'm back! I've just finished all my uni work and this was my next port of call. I obviously NEVER want John to be happy - the events of this chapter came out of nowhere! I have however finally figured out how I want this story to end as long as everything in the real world goes as it should re. transfers and a return to football - but I think its a good end!
> 
> I hope you're all doing well what with this pandemic and the BLMs events in the US. Think of donating here https://minnesotafreedomfund.org/donate and https://www.gofundme.com/f/georgefloyd to make a difference for an event that's going to define the future.
> 
> I've done no proofread or edit on this chapter - fingers crossed it's been okay but apologies if not !


	9. home - part I

Lockdown had hit everyone right between the eyes. They’d naively been in disbelief when all the matches had been cancelled, when they were told they could only go out to do a food shop and nothing more. It’d lasted a week so far, and John didn’t want to count his blessings too soon, but the fact he couldn’t see anyone was proving to be a bit of a silver lining. 

It couldn’t have come at a better time, really. John knew he should’ve felt guilty for thinking that, what with all the thousands of people dying, but he didn’t feel guilty at all. He didn’t feel much at the minute. 

City’s last game had been a two-nil defeat to United that John had had no part in. He hadn’t even been in the squad or travelled to Old Trafford with them because everyone knew his sanity was hanging by a thread, ready to snap. 

His teammates knew he’d had an argument with Leroy. A big one. A really fucking big one. They’d seen John’s tears in the changing room, and the theory was strengthened by the fact Leroy hadn’t turned up to training in the days following the incident with no excuse. Despite that, no-one could work out what exactly it was all about. 

Pep had been busy with the ensuing preparation for the pandemic everyone blindsidedly thought football would push on through, but he’d made time to pull John aside. So naturally, John had been cornered and told he wasn’t being played until he sorted himself out. 

John was still reeling from Pep actually breathing the sentence, “God, John, when you are not injured, your head is injured.” Could always trust in the greatest manager in the world to deliver some classic one-liners. 

Kyle had been begged for answers by the team but to his credit he’d kept his mouth shut. He promised John he’d told no-one anything more than it was to do with money and transfers - a lie of course, but when it came to those particular topics so high up in the game everyone knew to mind their own business. There was plenty of backhanded deals going on, plenty to do with offshore tax accounts and gambling. 

It was just something that was never spoken of, and it might’ve seemed plausible enough that Leroy and John had got muddled up in something. Yeah, it probably made John look like a right twat, but it was miles better than everyone knowing what the real story was. 

John had received various texts all asking the same questions. Kevin was the main offender - he’d have put John on suicide watch if he could. Raheem poured his heart out to John and said he was really worried for him, that he really cared, that he’d do anything to help one of his best mates. But John could tell that Raheem had cottoned on to the fact that the argument with Leroy was about their relationship, as inexistent as it now was, which had forced John to shut down. 

His other teammates stayed within acceptable lines. What’s up? What happened? How are you doing? Do you want to talk about it? Have you spoken to Leroy about it? 

Like fuck had he spoken to Leroy. John was still absolutely cut up. 

Leroy had tried phoning once or twice, presumably to apologise, but John could never bring himself to answer. He secretly hoped for a text instead but Leroy never sent one. And rightly so - it was too big of a deal to water down to a conversation over iMessage. 

A week alone had allowed John to come to the realisation that Leroy had made a mistake, that he was probably very sorry, and the way that John had responded by kicking up a fuss and crying his eyes out was mortifying. That didn’t make it any easier to come to terms with, though.

One thing John couldn’t get off his mind was how desperate Leroy had been to admit it all to him. He’d committed an awful act by invading John’s privacy, and maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if Leroy wasn’t at the very centre of the story, if he wasn’t the unnamed object of John’s affection. Had the guilt just been too much? John knew what it was like to be drowned by guilt.

It had always been up in the air, though, their relationship. John had no doubt Leroy had had that niggling feeling all along, one that told him John saw him as something more than a friend. They were City’s marquee signings in the summer of 2016; that’d made them close from the start, a common thread that connected them. John was twenty-two, Leroy twenty. Both unpolished, relatively inexperienced, innocent and childish. 

John could honestly say he’d never fancied him then, and he’d never thought he would. He’d had a girlfriend, who, now he’d had time to reflect on their relationship, he didn’t think he’d ever loved. It was a relationship born out of familiarity, out of dependency. He’d been with her since secondary school because that’s just what kids did, wasn’t it, and she’d been by his side as he rose up the ladder. 

It wasn’t love, but it was safe. It’d been the only sense of normalcy John felt as his world blew out of proportion, as he caught himself on the back page of the papers and he raked in fifty grand a week for playing football at the top level. 

It didn’t help that somewhere around Christmas of 2017 he’d caught himself feeling emotions he shouldn’t. Emotions directed towards one of his teammates, emotions that stirred somewhere deep inside him, emotions that fixated on Leroy and how he looked, how he spoke, how he moved. It’d made John so confused he went up the wall, didn’t trust himself anymore. 

For some reason he’d cheated on his girlfriend just before the World Cup. It was a heinous act, he knew that, but what it really was was a plea for help, the easy way out of the relationship. Instead of sitting her down and tearing her apart once he’d faced the fact he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her it seemed easier to just do something wicked instead and let her make her own mind up. 

Well she had, and she’d declared she wanted to stay with him, and worse, have a baby with him. 

Somehow it didn’t seem like a terrible option at the time. Especially not after Leroy had been heartbroken as he found out he hadn’t been picked to go to Russia, and John was one of the nearest bodies in the changing room after training. Leroy had been close to tears, and no-one quite knew what to do. He was so stoic when it came to negative emotion, so standoffish that a single spark seemed like it would set off a rage. 

Leroy had glimpsed at John and John looked back at him helplessly. Or maybe not so helplessly, because Leroy had shifted along the bench without so much as a word and wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders so tightly that it made John’s stomach burn with longing and his eyes sting with tears. 

This wasn’t him feeling love for another man. He wasn’t gay. Not at his age. Not one of his teammates. 

It wasn’t that John had never been attracted to another man until now; he’d shared enough changing rooms with lads to have admitted to himself once or twice that some men were undeniably attractive. He just thought everyone felt that way, deep down. 

It wasn’t a matter of denial. You truly were just programmed to be straight, weren’t you? John had never experienced an emotional connection with a man like this, and it had changed everything. That was the eureka moment, the epiphany. 

John went home and told his girlfriend they should have a baby. She flew out to see him in Russia along with all the other wags. It had taken him so long to come to terms with the fact he didn’t like her, not as much as she should, and now his baby was growing inside of her all because his fear of accepting his feelings for a man had got him there.

He didn’t know what to do, but he knew what felt right and he definitely knew what felt wrong. His relationship needed ending, and at first she accepted John’s ultimatum graciously, claiming she knew all along there was only a matter of time before he sacked her off. She’d got pregnant on purpose, she said, meaning he’d be paying child support for the next eighteen years. 

The press hounded him but they didn’t know the full story. He kept it to himself, and his performance fell to an all-time low. His confidence was gone, his cool-head a far-off memory. He was hit with injury upon injury as he failed to look after himself properly. For the first time he felt like he was on the bench more than he was on the pitch. 

Something kept him afloat, though, and it was the fact he wasn’t the only man on a sinking ship. Leroy was in exactly the same position. He’d had many a game where his attitude hadn’t been the most impressive; head down, sulking whenever he didn’t get the ball. 

Pep had noticed, and Mahrez was quite literally waiting in the wings to take Leroy’s place. Raheem was on irreplaceable form, ascending to a status where people were considering him world-class. 

Leroy was more than capable of that too, John thought. He was much more technically gifted than Raheem and Riyad, but his attitude was where he was failing, and it was a crying shame. 

At the same time it meant Leroy was always beside John. The pair of them became inseparable during games, in training, whispering things to each other about everyone else and sharing inside jokes no-one could understand. They both had a weird sense of humour, dry and grating, mean and curt. They were able to shoot glances at each other across the changing room at half-time, Pep-mid-rant, and find the joy in it because both of them had been relegated to the bench. They were out of favour together, in favour of each other. 

It was all too obvious how John had fallen for Leroy, wasn’t it? No-one understood him quite like he felt Leroy did. 

None of that mattered now, though. Lockdown had been imposed and Leroy couldn’t reach him. There’d be no need for reconciliation, either. Reality was inevitable; Leroy really would fuck off to Bayern in a few months time and it’d be rare for John to ever come face to face with him again. 

Thank fuck for that, he convinced himself, burying the untreated ache in his chest deeper and deeper. 

-

The next few days brought a number of surprises, and not the good kind. Who’d have thought that drama could arise with such ease while everyone was supposed to be locked up in their houses? John put it down to how fucking bored everyone was. 

John’s PR management took care of his Instagram posts, but he’d been asked by the FA to record a video repeating that awful spiel that went along the lines of stay at home, stay safe— something about the NHS? John could barely remember it, but he thought he’d done a pretty good job of acting like he hadn’t almost cried himself to sleep the night before. 

He’d been reassured he wasn’t the only player to be doing that particular video. Dele and Kyle had both done one, and Jack too, which John took the piss out of over text. Jack responded by saying John’s hair looked a state. Not a fair exchange, John thought, but maybe a truthful one. 

Being able to talk to Jack was the only thing keeping John grounded. Their conversations had become second nature now. John always looked forward to the hours-long phone calls they’d have every other day, but lately he’d started to want more, was desperate to be face to face with Jack once again. 

If he gave it too much thought the whole thing grew a tad weird, too surreal. Modern dating, or whatever shite you wanted to call it, wasn’t John’s cup of tea. He wasn’t too much of a fan of social media or virtual correspondence as it was, preferring it physical, even if he was self-admittedly an unsociable type. 

Sure, they spoke daily, and yeah, they flirted, and had agreed to go on a date, but that wasn’t exclusivity, not by a country mile. The fact they were in lockdown and supposed to be isolated did little to soothe John’s fears over whether Jack was taking it as seriously as he was. 

He fucking hated being home alone. All he could do was train in his little outdoor patio area, and that could only go on for a few hours before he felt knackered. John wished he had a fucking hobby. And no, contrary to popular belief, football didn’t count.

One evening when John was hunched over his tea a notification from Raheem had pinged up on John’s phone. The message included a random link, accompanied by nothing else but the cryptic question of ‘please tell me you’re not the friend?’ 

John was clueless as to what Raz meant. Granted, John had even more questions as he was faced with an article headline that read ‘Manchester City star Kyle Walker and friend hosted sex party with two escorts while on coronavirus lockdown a day before urging supporters to stay at home’. 

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. What a mess. Kyle fucking Walker. He never knew when to stop. 

John wasn’t the friend mentioned, thank god, but he didn’t have a clue who was, either. What the fuck was Kyle thinking? Prositutes? In lockdown? He had four kids, for Christ’s sake. At least John thought it was four - no, he'd got that Instagram model pregnant a while back as well, hadn’t he? Five, then. Fucking hell. And everyone thought John was the one with problems. 

A media storm ensued in the following hours. John had always steered well away from Twitter but it seemed criticism was bleeding more and more into everyone’s Instagram comments sections. On his stay at home video he had furious hordes demanding John sort his mate out. 

John eventually did call Kyle out of fear the lad’d top himself from all the hate. He was still his so-called best mate at the end of the day, wasn’t he?

“Why’d you do it, Kyle?” John groaned, burying his face into his pillow.

“Well if it was easy enough for me as calling up Ben fucking Chilwell and ramming my dick in his arse I wouldn’t be in this mess, would I?” 

“I was on the bottom, actually, you cunt,” John stated curtly before hanging up. 

He called Jack shortly after. They took the piss relentlessly, and John would’ve felt bad for chatting so much shit behind Kyle’s back if he wasn’t having the time of his life doing so. 

An hour or so into their routine phone call, Jack asked, “How you feeling anyway?” 

John’s body went stiff against the mattress. He hadn’t said a word about the Leroy situation to Jack, or how he was on edge mentally. Muscle strain was the easy way to explain why he’d been booted from the squad for their last game. 

“How’d you mean?”

“Just wondering,” Jack drawled in his trademark nonchalant manner. “Like, must be shite being on your own in a flat. Least I’m home with my family and that.”

“Yeah, I…” John trailed off, wondering if he should maybe just tell the truth. He trusted Jack loads, of course he did - they’d both entrusted huge secrets to one another. But if he started with all that he’d no doubt let something slip about Leroy, and Jack would start thinking John was an obsessive psycho. “I’ve been alright. If I wasn’t talking to people regularly though, like we’re doing now, think I’d go up the wall a little bit.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.”

“Only ever seeing people when I pop to the shops is making me edgy as well.”

“D’you like physical contact?”

John choked. “Do I like physical contact?”

“Yeah, like being hugged and all that. People in your personal space.”

He fucking hated it. Except from when it was Leroy, and they’d play-fight in training, John tugging at Leroy’s afro, Leroy snatching at John’s lanky limbs. Being wary of where the camera’s were set up. Knowing their teammates had a hunch it was all a little less innocent than just a normal friendship.

“Depends who.” John swallowed the lump in his throat. “Will practically be begging for it after a few more weeks locked up, though.”

“Will you now?” Jack laughed, liking that idea.

“I was thinking,” John blurted out, already regretting what was to come, “maybe we could meet up. Like, you could come here or something, doesn’t have to be for long, like, and— and only if you want to of course, and obviously, we wouldn’t have to say anything.”

He was glad Jack wasn’t with him to see his burning cheeks after he’d butchered that proposition. Jack was quiet for a moment or two, though, as if he was really putting some thought into it.

“Can’t, John. Can't, can we?”

An ache spread across John’s chest. 

“Look what’s happened to Walker. If anyone saw us we’d both be fucked, and people’d be asking why we’re meeting, which wouldn’t help either of us right now,” Jack sighed. “And I’d feel bad, you know… on all the nurses, and that.”

“Yeah, yeah—”

“I’d say yes any other time, ‘course I would—”

“No, you’re completely right,” John grimaced. “Silly of me to suggest it.”

“No, no, if I was alone I’d be desperate to get out too. Just has to be done, doesn’t it? Rules are rules.” 

Jack was right. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though, and John got to convincing himself he’d essentially been rejected. At the end of the day if Jack wanted to see John as much as John wanted to see Jack the answer would’ve been different, wouldn’t it? 

They ended the call soon after and John went straight to bed. It was only half nine, but there was fuck all else to do. 

He didn’t feel the urge to cry tonight even though what Jack had said about physical contact was looping around his mind, images of shoulder-barging into teammates and wrapping arms around shoulders in celebration making him crave any human warmth that wasn’t his own. Still wouldn’t be desperate enough to call a prostitute, though. 

John couldn’t say what time he’d fallen asleep, but he slept heavily, and when he awoke the sun was shining brightly behind the curtains. He’d been quite good at keeping a routine, showering every morning as usual and working out. It was the afternoons where he found himself at a bit of a loss, wandering around his flat, making sure everything was in its place. 

Eventually he sat himself in front of the telly and started aimlessly scrolling through Instagram. As usual, there was nothing exciting. Or so John thought until he spotted something on his explore page that made him do a double take. 

It was a picture of Jack, and by the looks of it, it was recent. Clothed in a blue hoodie, hair dishevelled, and even stranger, one slipper was on, and the other missing. He looked fucking rough. Exhausted and hungover. 

John swiped across, intrigued, and not in a good way. There was a picture of a car, half-on and half-off the pavement, one of the wheels smashed up. The caption read ‘first Kyle Walker, now Jack Grealish thinking they can get away with this shit’. 

This wasn’t what it fucking looked like, was it? 

It took a mere hour or so for Jack’s name to be slandered all over the far reaches of the internet, his head being called for by everyone and anyone. John wanted to join in on it too, feeling confused and embarrassed and hurt. 

It had been just yesterday evening that Jack had acted all high and mighty, crying for the poor fucking nurses. Rules are rules, he’d said. He’d said it with his chest. 

And if the rumours were true, evidenced in the photos, he’d really hung up the phone and driven round to one of his mate’s, got pissed, and crashed his car on the way home. 

John thought he might’ve made it through the day without crying for once but this had thrown a big fucking spanner in the works. The worst thing about it all was that his worst suspicions had been confirmed; Jack wasn’t arsed about lockdown and following the rules, not really. He just didn’t want to see John. Again, John was investing so much time and energy and emotion into someone who didn’t give a shit about him. 

Life was fucking out for him, wasn’t it? He felt polluted. His best mate had proven himself a fucking idiot, and now the man he liked had clearly learned nothing, making Kyle’s crime of having a sex party almost look like a bunch of innocent fun. 

Speak of the devil. Kyle had no shame, had he, sending a text punctuated by lines of laughing-crying emojis. 

Least I don’t look like the only stupid one now !

John knew the reply he’d furiously typed out was immature, but it was too much of a work of art to not press send. 

Oh fucking fuck off Walks you bald prozzie shagger


	10. home - part II

John’s phone was buzzing away. He let the vibrations die out before approaching the now-dormant object and brought it upon himself to confront the screen. 

(8) Missed Call - Jack

(1) Missed Call - Kyle

(21) Text Message - Jack 

(7) WhatsApp Group Message - Man City 2019/2020

(5) WhatsApp Group Message - Three Lions #ENG

Jesus Christ. He’d only gone for a shower. Granted, he’d sat on the floor for a bit while he debated whether or not he wanted to cry, but he was sure he couldn’t have been away from his phone for more than forty-five minutes. Where was he meant to fucking start?

Tentatively he placed his thumb on the screen, swiped across, and awaited facial recognition to do the honours.

Mate can you call me  
John  
Hellooo you there??  
?  
Why you ignoring me  
John fucking talk to me mate please  
I’m sorry about it all??  
Just answer your fucking phone   
I know you’ve seen it  
It’s everywhere and it’s a joke  
Are you taking the piss John why you not answering  
We need to fucking talk!  
Your the last person I’d expect to be a dick to me about this  
Please mate come on  
John please  
I’m sorry. Please answer your phone. It was a mistake and I look fucking stupid now trust me I know. Just really need to speak to you bud it’s hard. I’d come see you now if I could trust me I just wanna speak please please mate. Tell me off all you want I’m a twat I know. Just don’t ignore me   
John come on  
Please you’re the only person I can speak to  
John?  
You’re a fucking joke  
Fuck off then 

If Jack was right about anything it was that John had in fact seen ‘it’, and ‘it’ was in fact ‘everywhere’. And he was right that he looked fucking stupid, and he was right that he was a twat, too. 

The strangely familiar metallic taste of blood filled John’s mouth. Hands too preoccupied with scrolling through the conversation, he must’ve taken to gnawing on the inside of his cheek as a substitute for a good old nail bite. He didn’t want to process everything that Jack had said just yet, if ever. 

Did he dare take a peek inside either of the WhatsApp groups? The England one had been quiet for some time. It wasn’t the entire squad, though, thank fuck; it was mostly only the lads who’d been to Russia, the closest of them.

Tripps: Oh no Grealish   
Tripps: Attachment (2 Images)

Delboy: Not a good look is it haha deary me

Chilly: Well he can wave bye bye to that call up he was so desperate for ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

John didn’t know what Chilwell was fucking piping up for. Who’d added him, anyway? 

Walks: Couldn’t get one in the first place 

Well, didn’t take a genius to work out Kyle had given his two cents in order to rattle John. It had worked, mind. 

Stonesy: Kyle mate neither can you anymore 

And with that bombshell John threw his phone halfway across the room, the case clattering against his bedside table before tumbling off somewhere beneath the bed. 

He wasn’t upset about it all, not really. It wasn’t that he was smug, either. There was no enjoyment in seeing someone you thought you were so close with generate hundreds of click-baiting articles where the comments sections were flooded with insurmountable hate. 

Numb was how he’d describe it. Leroy had delivered the blow, sending him to the floor, and Jack had as good as stamped on his head, knocking him out cold. 

Was he overreacting? Probably. There were people dying and kids starving, weren’t there?

Excusing his own problems and dismissing them in place of guilt about issues that were far from his control was a regular talking point of John’s therapy sessions. Even though he was certain he’d never step foot back in Callum’s office after what had happened he knew he could’ve done with a good few hours to work through everything with someone. 

The closest thing to a therapy session that John could commit himself to was a good jog. Over the past few days his Instagram had been flooded with screenshots of people’s five kilometre running times, some sort of stupid challenge where you’d do the run, nominate five people to do the same, then donate a fiver through Richard Branson’s Virgin charity set-up. 

Seemed sort of counteractive to John considering Branson was suing the NHS, but none of that mattered when you were showing everyone how fast you could run, did it? 

John was in tune with those sorts of things but he never liked to admit it. He cared about people, about politics, had grown up working class in Barnsley and then as a teenager in Liverpool. He was most definitely a socialist, but you mentioned that word in the dressing room at work and no-one’d know what it meant, or you’d get laughed at because it was somehow hypocritical. 

“You happily accept a hundred grand a week from mysterious sources in the Middle East, though, don’t you John?” one of the physios had said to him once. It was light-hearted, a bit of teasing, but it’d stayed with him. 

He often made donations. You had to, or you ended up feeling guilty. John favoured smaller gestures like donating to schools and community centres in the north. It made it all feel a little more tangible, more worthwhile, than one of those lump-sum donations he often heard about his teammates making. In 2014 the PFA had released a report on charity work done by Premier League players and to John’s surprise he was applauded in it for his work with students and impaired kids. 

He really liked coaching children and working with them. There were no egos, no rivalries. There was the chance to make a difference, and John knew how much something like that mattered at an early age. When he was seven and played for his Saturday team one of his coaches had taken a shining to him, gave him that little bit extra attention, spotted the potential. Made him confident, marauding on the ball, and he wanted to try new things. 

Right now he’d give it all up, everything, all the medals and the money, just to go back to that. What a dire state of affairs.

John made his way down to the reception of the apartment block, put his headphones in and opened up the Strava app. 

Barkley had recently updated his account with a five kilometre time. Hang on a minute, John thought - sixteen minutes and eleven seconds? How was that even possible? He was a strong, athletic lad, but he wasn’t exactly Mo fucking Farah. If Ross could do it in sixteen minutes John could surely do a sub-twenty. 

The streets of Manchester were deserted. John’s usual running route along the canal wasn’t much busier, a dog-walker or two passing by every few minutes. He couldn’t decide if the thought of him being the only person left on the planet was his idea of a fantasy or a concept that made every inch of his skin crawl. 

Jogging helped in the way that he didn’t think about much else other than his pace of breath and the length of his strides. Feet connected with the ground, air in his lungs. There were no mistakes to make, no-one to disappoint. 

He ran for five kilometres up towards Heaton Park and stopped when he reached an area of grass where he could sit for a few minutes, his chest and back heaving in that healthy sort of way. There were families dotted around, still moving as per the rules, enjoying the sunshine. 

21:44 was John’s five kilometre time. He’d done a bit further, but he was still a whole five minutes slower than Ross. He fucking hated that lad. John reckoned if they didn’t know one another Ross’d be exactly the type to bump into him on a night out and hurl a homophobic slur at him. 

He wouldn’t lie and say they hadn’t been mates at Everton, but whenever they saw each other now on international breaks John only acted friendly out of fear he’d call him a poof or something. 

What would it be like, that first time back at St George’s Park, if the news got out that he was bisexual? Would everyone stare and make jokes about it? Granted, he wasn’t the only one, but that didn’t make him feel any safer. Would he even get a call-up again? Southgate would be supportive, John knew that, but maybe it would be a step too far, too soon. 

He sat back on his elbows, stretched out his legs and looked up at the sky. There were no planes, no clouds, just the occasional bird. Jesus, he felt like fucking crying. Oh, fuck - he was going to start fucking crying, wasn’t he? Right in the middle of Heaton fucking Park as well. He really picked his times for it, didn’t he?

Deep breaths. He needed to breathe it out, breathe through the sheen of water that had begun to gather over his eyes. Breathe like he’d been taught, like—

His ringing phone provided a much needed distraction. If he hadn’t been so panicked, however, he might’ve been smart enough to realise the caller was Jack before he’d slid his thumb across the screen and brought it to his ear. 

“Er, hello?” he choked, mind racing.

“Come ‘round to mine.”

John bolted upright, completely caught off-guard by the deep Brummie drawl. He was even more boggled by the request that had been made. 

“You what?”

“Come see me,” Jack demanded, voice low and rushed as if someone was listening in. “Come stay with me, stay at my house. If after a few days we realise we actually hate each other then fine, go home, do whatever you want. But I think it’d be good.”

John blinked like a deer in headlights, absolutely blindsided by what he’d just heard. “You… you taking the mick?”

“No. I’ve made up my mind. Wanna see you.” 

There was way too much to think about and John’s mind was drawing a blank. He was supposed to be angry at Jack, wasn’t he? Come to think of it, John was sure the man had just done something that was completely wrong, both morally and legally. He knew exactly how he felt about Jack’s proposal, though, and he hated himself for it. 

He managed to stop biting his fingernails for a moment in order to force his words out. “You sure this isn’t just your way of making an apology you haven’t really thought out?”

“Like I said, if you still hate me after a day or two, you’re more than welcome to go home.”

“Well, you make it sound so tempting,” John scoffed. “You not being watched by the fucking MI6, then, after what you’ve done?” 

“Barrel of fucking laughs you are, aren’t you?”

“I’m just saying, you’re already in a heap of fucking trouble,” John shot back. “You get caught again and you’re even more fucked than you already are. What’s in it for me when I could get fucked too?” 

“Well you might get fucked, John, that’s what’s in it for you. End of the day, that’s we both want, isn’t it?” 

One-nil Grealish. 

“What I want more is to understand why you said no to me the other day when I asked you the exact same thing, Jack, only for you to go out, get pissed up, and crash your car in the middle of a fucking pandemic.”

And there was Stones with a worldie of an equaliser.

“Listen, John,” he murmured, “I like you, you soft lad. In fact, I like you loads. But all I’ve been thinking is, is this a smart thing to do? I know you know what I mean.”

He did. The choices they were faced with, the compromises they had to make. Jack could break lockdown without so much as a dint on his career, but get caught with a man, and the abuse could potentially be career-shattering. Sure, he was getting a bit of slack now, but it didn’t go much further than saying he was overrated or stupid. An attack on someone’s sexuality would be different, would cut so much deeper; it would be an attack on something you weren’t able to change, something that was natural.

“So I was putting it off, putting it off, telling myself I’ll work it out one day when I was just avoiding it out of worry instead,” Jack admitted. “But why fucking do that when I like you? And if not now, then when? I’m at my house and no-one’s coming or going so no-one’ll suspect a thing. And I’ll give you a full, formal apology when we’re face to face, alright? Get on my hands and knees. How’s that sound?” 

John was on the verge of tears again, but this time they were laden with joy, a sense of hope. He’d fucked up once, but Jack was suddenly proving himself as a better communicator than any of the romantic interests John had had so far. He didn’t really need convincing, though. The answer was always going to be yes. 

“John, love? You still there?” 

And just like that, the deal was sealed.

“I’m just out, just been for a run. But I’ll head home now, get a few bits together, and text you when I’m about to set off.”

He could practically hear Jack grinning on the other end of the line. “Alright then. I’ll text you the address.”

“Alright then. See you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nice win tonight so I'm in high spirits despite Leroy's departure - think my heart is more broken than John's will be (spoilers ha ha x) - as a result here's a quick update. 
> 
> As a heads up I did have the end of this story planned out with quite a lot of certainty but with Villa most likely going down which (fingers crossed for his sake) means Jack will leave, as well as my suspicions that John could also leave City this summer I might have to diverge from whatever actually ends up happening in order to fulfil the happy ending I think everyone deserves. And there WILL be a happy ending I promise even if I have to completely ignore the fact John's career is looking more inexistent by the day x


	11. away - part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday. I cannot write smut to save my life so some real effort (mostly drunken) was undertaken here. Also worthwhile to note I write this fucking fic and this chapter is all I’ve been waiting for so I hope you’re as glad to see it as I am lmao, enjoy x

Jack had text John his address and told him to park his car in the garage so no-one would see it. His instructions were then to enter the house via the door inside the garage that had been left unlocked. 

It all felt very fucking inconspicuous. John wasn’t squeaky clean by any means, but this had got him shitting it. 

It’d taken him a bit longer than he’d anticipated to get there. He’d had to run home - a five kilometre personal best of seventeen minutes, by the way - shower, try and sort his overgrown trim out, then gather up some clothes and toiletries. He was conscious of not taking too much out of fear he’d look like he was overstaying his welcome. 

He wasn’t oblivious to all the logistical issues, and he didn’t even want to get started on how neither of them had really thought this through. He was meant to have training via videochat with the rest of the squad every other day, their next session scheduled for tomorrow. 

If need be, John supposed the most perfect excuse for his absence was staring everyone in the face - he had the virus, didn’t he? Yeah, he’d caught it from a snotty kid who’d sneezed on him in Asda. Believable enough, that. 

The roads were eerily quiet. John rarely passed another car on the motorway, the majority of the vehicles he zoomed past being lorries hauling goods to and from each destination. He had the radio on quietly, a contrast to his overwhelmingly loud thoughts. 

He was antsy and excited at the same time, envisioning the back and forth that would hopefully start between them as soon as he stepped in the door. An all-too familiar undercurrent of sadness still ran through him, but it had done for a good few months now. It was John’s reminder that nothing seemed to go right for him; not his career, not his family life, and certainly nothing romantic, either. He hadn’t ignored that the feeling faded most when he was talking to Jack, but he’d always been careful not to get his hopes up. 

It was just past nine when John approached Jack’s house. The entire stretch of country road was lined by million-quid estates and landscaped gardens, making him more and more anxious about getting the wrong house. Visions of accidentally knocking on John McGinn’s door and having to explain why he was a hundred miles away from Manchester in the middle of a lockdown flashed behind his eyelids. 

It was pretty obvious which house belonged to Jack. It was a sprawling new-build mansion of dark brick and black-paned windows shielded by its own forest of trees and a long drive. John wondered if Jack secretly had a bit of taste or whether it was simply a big price-tag that had tempted him to buy it.

There was only one car outside - not the now infamous white Range Rover he’d smashed up - but a matte-black Mercedes with all the trimmings. Had that one sat in the garage in case of emergencies, did he?

Speaking of the garage, it was open and empty like Jack had said it would be. John was absolutely petrified, one hand perched on the wheel, the other raised to his mouth so he could bite away at his nails. He might’ve turned around and left if it wasn’t for the light that had turned on in one of the rooms inside, casting a glow across the stones scattered on the drive.

Swallowing his pride, he took his time to park. He got out, stretched his legs and pulled his jeans up. There was only one door on the inside of the garage, which John assumed was his intended means of entry. 

He approached the door and tried the handle, and as he’d hoped, it edged open. 

It took him through into a utility room, one of those spaces where you threw all your shit as soon as you got home. This was certainly Jack’s house, anyway. The floor was lined with an array of boots and trainers, and training jackets with ‘JG 10’ printed on the chest hung on the wall. 

It all suddenly seemed very fucking real. 

He wandered through the next door and down a hallway, finding that everywhere was dark and quiet. This place was fucking massive; through a window he could see out to the back garden that extended as far as his eyes could make out in the dark. 

The hallway eventually led into an open-plan kitchen and living area, the floor paved in a grey flagstone and the walls painted a crisp white. John was grateful for the phone in the pocket of his jeans, and for a moment he contemplated ringing Jack before taking any more steps and going too far without permission. 

“Jack?” he called out instead, putting his car keys down on the kitchen counter. 

There was no reply, no movement. 

“Jack? Jack, mate? It’s John,” he said, cautious of being too loud. 

What if Jack’s fucking Mam had come around, and she walked in on John pottering about in the kitchen? Granted, she wouldn’t recognise him, and they’d both be breaking the rules of lockdown. Didn’t make it any better though, did it? Surely Jack would’ve said something if that was the case. 

Surely he’d have been waiting for John too though, but it was Jack, and John never knew what to expect from him. 

John cleared his throat for what felt like the tenth time. “Jack? This meant to be like a fucking scene from Beetlejuice?” Bad comparison, he realised, but it was the only movie set in a creepy house that he could think of with his mind racing at a million miles an hour. “You gonna jump out at me?”

Somewhere in the distance John could hear footsteps padding across the floor, growing closer. Jack finally emerged at the far end of the room, making his way down a staircase like he had all the time in the fucking world. Phone in one hand, empty mug in the other, he was clothed in a pair of tiny navy shorts and a white t-shirt, sliders on his feet. 

“The fuck’s Beetlejuice?” he asked, nonchalantly making his way through the furniture dotted around the room. 

John blinked a few times, wondering if the man in front of him was real or a mirage. Jack busied himself by taking his mug to the sink and rinsing it out. 

“It’s an old movie.”

“Oh, any good?”

“Can’t really remember, you know. Haven’t watched it for a while.” 

John opened his mouth to speak again but had no idea of what he was going to say, so he supposed he was lucky when Jack got the next word in. 

“Liking the hair,” he mused, nodding to the messy mop of curls that hung over John’s forehead. 

John had expected nothing less. He couldn’t resist smiling, and hoped to hide the flush of heat he felt beneath his cheeks by shaking his head at the floor. Jack’s hair was similarly outgrown, a thin black band keeping the blonde-tipped strands off his face. It suited him, even if it was just a look nabbed off an early-2000’s Beckham. 

“Yeah, haven’t quite managed to get myself to the barber’s for a while,” John replied, voice soft. 

Why was he being so fucking shy, averting his eyes and hushing his tone? Not to blow his own trumpet, but John reckoned he was pretty decent at flirting, so he wondered why he lost all nerve when he came face to face with Jack. 

It was clear in the way the other man smirked and folded his arms over his chest that he’d noticed. But John got the sense he liked it, was privately amused by John’s unexpected meekness. Jack moved away from the kitchen area and headed to rest against the back of one of the sofa’s not too far from where John was stood. 

“Been busy, have you?” he teased, crossing his legs.

“Something like that,” John bit back. He could do better than this; he could be the boisterous, witty Stones that people seemed to know and love so well, or at least used to. “Well come on then, you danger to society. Where’s this apology?”

Jack groaned and ticked his head to the side. “Knew that was coming.” 

“You’ll have had time to prepare, then.”

That comment had got him. John couldn’t tear his eyes away as Jack pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth in order to fight off a smirk. 

“Right, then,” he began, dropping his hands to rest on his hips. He looked so fucking good when he stood like that. “I, Jack Peter Grealish—”

“Ha—” John laughed, much too full of adrenaline to let Jack wriggle his way out of this without any interruptions. “Your middle name’s Peter?”

“Something wrong with that?” 

“Not at all.”

“Well what’s yours?”

“Don’t have one,” John declared, liking how he’d put Jack off. He didn’t seem too convinced, though. ”Honest. You can check my driver’s license.”

“Think I’ll pass you up on that,” Jack told him with a glimmer in his eyes, before adding a casual, “you boring cunt.” There was no doubt about it; he was enjoying being teased as much as John was enjoying doing so. 

“Hardly my choice to have no middle name, was it? Carry on then. I, Jack Peter Grealish—”

“I, Jack Peter Grealish, apologise wholeheartedly to John boring-cunt Stones, for breaking lockdown—”

“Ah— still not good enough,” John exclaimed, tutting theatrically. 

This was more like him. Sarcastic, playful, demanding, and buzzing with lust. His nerves had gone, despite the sight of Jack fucking Grealish being enough to make anyone with the slightest bit of taste have their stomach do somersaults. At this point any apology could get thrown out the fucking window - but that didn’t mean John was going to pass up the opportunity to squeeze it out of him.

“Thought I remember you saying you’d get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness, didn’t you?”

Jack’s lips twitched, the corners edging upwards. Their gazes were locked - had been for some time now - and their eyes bore into one another as Jack took his time in lowering himself to the floor. 

His muscular thighs grew as his bare knees made contact with the flagstones, and the bunching of his shorts around his crotch meant John had to be wary of where he allowed his attention to wander. John wondered if Jack was already aching down there in the same way that he was. 

“How’s this?” Jack asked.

“Could be better,” John murmured. “Keep going.”

“I’m sorry for breaking lockdown. I’m sorry for being fucking stupid and meeting my mates to have a few. And I’m sorry for getting in my car and…” He paused and allowed himself a few self-deprecating chuckles. Fuck knows how many times he’d had to recite this apology already. “And parking poorly on a random pavement, then going back for it in the morning, like… well, like a responsible adult would.” 

John raised his eyebrows. “That’s really how you’re describing it?”

“Well… I might be glossing over a few details here and there.”

“Thought so. Bit daft all that, wasn’t it?”

“Believe me,” Jack sighed, swaying on his knees, “I know.”

A flash of hurt had crossed his expression. As much as John wanted to remedy it, to tell him to forget it all, something had started to weigh heavy on his own chest. 

“I’m not actually too fussed about all that, Jack,” he shrugged. “Care more about the fact you said, ‘no, John, I can’t come to yours… think of the poor NHS’ only hours before… and now you’ve changed your tune.”

“Alright, alright, I know,” he nodded, rolling his tongue over his lower lip as he thought of how to explain himself. “I’m sorry I used such a crap excuse. I showed myself up right after, didn’t I? You know it’s wrong, but you reckon everyone else is doing it, so you never think you’re gonna get caught, do you? But I’m sorry for what I did John, honestly. Was stupid and unfair. And I’m most sorry that I made you feel like shit, because I know I probably did.”

He was completely right, but John sneered to hide his growing sympathy. “Don’t flatter yourself, Grealish.”

“Well,” Jack smirked, liking John’s use of his last name, “let’s just say if it was the other way ‘round, and you’d have left me hangin’ like that, I’d have been gutted.”

Fuck, it was hard to stay angry with this lad. John wasn’t very stubborn, couldn’t hold much of a grudge for long, crumbled at the first instance - so when it was all dealt at the hands of Jack, tan, charming, and athletic Jack, just the right amount of rugged and just the right amount of suave - there was nothing John could do about it. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t throw your pathetic NHS line back at you when you called me today,” John mumbled. “Public polling’d put Boris Johnson above you in terms of trustworthiness right now, and that’s fucking saying something.” 

“You always this much of a smart arse?”

“Not liking it?”

“Never said that,” Jack stated. “You’ve still driven all this way for something, haven’t you John?”

Jack leant further forward as he posed the question, chest not too far from the floor as he hung over his knees, chin raised in order to look up at John. He was the one on the ground with John towering above him, but the sense of confidence had shifted between the pair. There was a look in Jack’s eyes that John couldn’t ignore; his brown eyes had grown darker, pupils dilating as the natural light outside the window began to fade. 

“You have technically broken lockdown, after all,” he said. “Both in the same boat now, aren’t we?”

John took a breath and steadied himself. “You reckon I should be regretting this, then?” 

“No. You don’t regret it.”

“You sound very sure about that.”

Jack ran his tongue across his lower lip, more than aware John’s eyes were glued to his face. “That’s because I am.”

“How can you be so sure when I don’t even know how I feel?” John asked, not quite sure where that had come from. Somewhere driven by desire, and lust, and a need for Jack to put his fucking hands on him, he supposed. 

As if John had spoken that exact thought aloud, Jack began moving closer to him. He rose up slightly, his broad shoulders widening out, but he remained on his knees as he inched forward, demanding John’s entire attention. 

John couldn’t quite believe this was happening. He knew they had chemistry, that they shared a lot of pent-up frustration, but he hadn’t exactly expected it to play out in a way that was quite as thrilling as this. His breaths were growing shorter and tingling sensations were shooting to the ends of his fingers and toes. 

Eventually Jack reached John. He was still on his knees, arms by his sides, head hung back on his neck so they were able to meet one another’s gaze. There were mere inches between the fabric that clothed John’s stomach and Jack’s face. John noticed the dusting of freckles across Jack’s nose; the stubble that lined his strong jaw; the slant of his high cheekbones and the flicker of his pupils from left to right as Jack did the exact same thing to John, studying his expression.

“How’d you feel now, John?” 

“Still undecided,” he lied. 

Jack rolled his head on his neck, inhaling a deep breath. A moment passed and he rose to his feet, the motion so fluid it was as if it had happened a thousand times before. 

There was a noticeable height difference between the two, but it made it all that much better. Their bodies were barely apart, the fabric of their t-shirts touching, and John realised he’d never had the chance to look at another man so intimately. 

“And what about now?” Jack asked. 

“I’m warming to the idea.” 

Naturally, as if they both just knew the time had come, their lips met. The first kiss was soft and chaste, John’s lower lip a perfect fit between Jack’s as he raised one hand to hold the side of the other man’s neck, and one settled on his chin, caressing the slant of Jack’s jaw. 

The pair drew away slightly, registering the act of something they’d both wanted for so long. John might’ve thought he was imagining it, but the details were all too real. 

“You warmed to the idea yet?” 

John tugged on a runaway strand of Jack’s hair. “Could be warmer.”

“Christ, you always this bloody difficult?”

“Only joking.”

“I know you are,” Jack grinned, shaking his head. “You’re a soft lad.”

Their kisses soon turned firm and needy, with Jack backing John up against the kitchen counter in order to press their bodies closer together. It was never a fight for dominance, but John quickly realised Jack liked to be pushed about a little bit, to have his face held and his hair tugged. 

It was as if John had taken a blow to the head, the way he was gasping and breathless as Jack’s hands scarpered over his body, needily tugging on his t-shirt and the waistband of his jeans. He fucking needed them off. 

“Bedroom?” he suggested against Jack’s neck. 

“Na, we’ve got all fucking lockdown to use the bedroom,” Jack told him, grinning dirtily as John pressed kisses over his jaw. “I want you to fuck me in here, on the sofa.”

That was that, then, John thought, suddenly lightheaded at the thought of being the one to dictate the act. He was already desperately hard, though, and he was itching to have Jack pinned under him. 

He went about doing exactly that, manoeuvring Jack towards the sofa and onto the seat. It didn’t take long for Jack to whip his t-shirt off before helping John do the same. He wasn’t the thin, slight lad he’d been at twenty anymore, a build that had earned him the nickname ‘pencil’. He’d widened out considerably, and he preferred his current shape to his previous form, especially once he got a look at Jack who put him to shame. 

Jack’s shorts came off soon after, and John was unusually attentive, devoted to working Jack up as much as possible. It was as if John had blinked and his own jeans were off, his hands caressing Jack’s cock through the fabric of his briefs. 

In a rare moment where he’d managed to catch his breath, Jack grasped John’s right thigh, smoothing his thumb over the ink on his skin. 

“Nice tattoos.”

“Cheers. I’ll let you comment on the artistic integrity of them once we’ve got off.”

“Big words, Stonesy. I’ll let you explain them to me later.”

John would’ve been caught blushing if he hadn’t taken the attention off himself by slipping his hand inside Jack’s briefs. Jack took the cue, tugging his pants off, which finally left him completely bare. 

The first thought that crossed John’s mind was that Jack’s dick was bigger than his. Hardly surprising, really. He’d had low odds for Jack’s cock to be huge, and his suspicions were confirmed; he was just the sort of lad who’d been blessed in that way.

When John eventually got his head straight again his second thought was to go down on Jack, which he did with enthusiasm. It was as if he was drunk. His confidence was climbing, and with every moan Jack released paired with the way he ran his fingers through John’s curls, John put another grade of effort into the act. 

It wasn’t long before he could feel Jack squirming under his touch, breaths ragged. “Stop, John. Stop, or I’ll cum.” 

John raised his head, wiping his thumb across his swollen lips. What a sight - Jack was all hot and bothered, jaw hung agape. 

“Not usually something anyone’d complain about.”

“Want you to fuck me before I cum, you daft cunt.”

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, still working his hand along Jack’s length. “Lube?”

“Just fucking spit on me, John,” he urged, teeth gritted in order to hold back his moans.

“Fucking hell, alright,” John seethed, loosening his grip on Jack’s cock. “I’ve only done this once before, remember?”

Jack grabbed John’s wrist and directed his hand further back down his shaft, whining at the lack of contact. “Don’t fucking remind me!” he complained. “You banged on about it enough after that game in January.”

“Hey—” John scoffed, shoving Jack onto his back before holding him there, pressing down hard on his chest. “Do you want me to lose my stiffy?”

“Don’t know about you, John,” Jack taunted, trapped beneath him, “but seeing you all pissed-off like this makes me even harder.”

Fucking hell, he was right. Jack knew exactly what he was doing and it was working like a treat for the both of them. 

If John didn’t get his cock in Jack’s arse soon he’d fucking cum like he was a teenager who’d just discovered wanking for the first time. He went about flipping Jack over, holding the back of his neck down against the cushions as he encouraged him to raise his arse. Fuck, those thighs were like the eighth fucking wonder of the world. John could get used to being the one giving with that view.

John took his boxers off before putting two of his fingers in his mouth to wet them, kneading Jack’s left thigh with his free hand. He traced the line of Jack’s opening before slipping his index finger inside, the pair almost groaning in synchronisation as Jack dug his face into the sofa, John feeling pleasure simply from the reaction. 

He was unsure of what was meant to feel best, of whether the motion was up or down, where the prostate even was. But judging from the way Jack tensed around his fingers and gripped the edges of the sofa, knuckles turning white as he whimpered, John reckoned he was doing okay. 

He’d built up a rhythm that had rendered Jack breathless, back arching as John’s fingers pushed deeper and deeper. But John couldn’t quite believe he’d barely had his own share of satisfaction, and he thought he’d been patient enough. Still fingering Jack, he stroked himself and ran his aching tip along the dip between Jack’s cheeks.

Jack pushed himself back against John’s cock, desperate for the friction. “Stop teasing me,” he whined. “Fucking put it in.”

John had already decided he liked this dynamic, Jack the needy one completely under John’s thumb, especially after giving it so much chat in every other aspect of their relationship. 

He spat on himself, and then on Jack too, remembering the mixture of pain and pleasure he’d felt his first time. Jack had done this before but John wanted it to be different for both of them, for the intimacy to be what separated this from their dual experiences with that other lad he didn’t want to think about right now. 

“Get on your back,” John demanded, releasing his grip on Jack’s body.

Jack moaned, growing even more frustrated. He did as he was told though, lumbering onto his back. John took in the sight of Jack’s body, his limbs sprawled out beneath him, cock flushed as it sat against his muscular stomach. If his thighs were a sight for sore eyes, his torso was something fucking else. 

“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Jack told him, wiping the sweat off his brow.

John frowned but set about lifting Jack’s body into a comfortable position for him, legs raised against John’s chest. 

“Had what in me?” 

“Had it in you to order me about like this,” Jack murmured, gripping John’s arms in order to steady himself. “Thought you were a bit shy, you know, being all sarcastic and that, just so you can hide how sensitive you really are.”

John scoffed, but he fucking loved hearing all that. For Jack to pay so much attention, to know he thought about John’s feelings, his personality - it was fucking unbelievable. 

“Well, you’re a cocky twat, Jack, but luckily enough for you, I fancy you to fuck.”

“Shut up, you soppy git,” Jack grinned, signalling his neediness by digging his fingers into John’s skin. “Now will you please, please, fuck me?” 

Nothing more needed to be said. John lined himself up at Jack’s entrance, and with a nod he started to ease himself in, paying attention to each minuscule change that crossed Jack’s face. He took his time, and with every retreat he returned to push himself deeper in. He hadn’t had sex with a lass for some time now but from what he could remember this was inching it, the sensation tighter and warmer. 

John was in an absolute daze, with Jack the same, lewd and low grunts and groans occasionally spilling from his throat. It wasn’t difficult for John to work himself into a rhythm, completely in power over Jack who threw his neck back, exposing the skin of his throat for John to press his lips over. 

Everything felt otherworldly; John would go fast, pushing Jack’s body to the limit, before slowing down to roll his hips deeper, relishing in the way Jack’s thighs trembled against him. He hadn’t performed this well for some fucking time. There was no chance he was lasting much longer though, what with the sight of Jack with his eyes clenched shut, curse words being muttered from his flushed lips every few seconds. 

He could feel his cock twitching inside Jack, and how Jack clenched around him in turn. He was going to cum, but never in any world would he allow himself to get off before Jack did. Shifting himself so he could get a grip on Jack’s cock, he began stroking him, knowing he’d hit the spot as soon as Jack’s eyes flew open before rolling right back in his head. 

John felt the release of Jack’s cum all over his hand, and it was only a matter of seconds and a few more thrusts before John let himself go, a guttural moan brewing deep in his throat as he spilled into Jack. 

Fuck-ing-hell. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Holy fuck. 

His eyes fluttered open to find Jack caressing his cheek, an unmistakeable grin growing over the pretty boy’s rosy face. 

“You seem to be pretty fucking warm to the idea of breaking lockdown to me,” he told John.


	12. away - part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long one but just wanted to write more and more of it. Maybe John deserves happiness after all (ha ha sike) x

Time was no longer a valid measure of the days that passed. The sun grew stronger as spring turned to summer, and at night there was a soothing silence in the dark sky that was laced with distant lights. 

Lockdown had endured. It wasn’t clear when it was going to end (or if there was any end), what with the way the government were pissing up the wall. There’d been lots of discussions going on about restarting football, Liverpool desperate to avoid a null and void, but for the most part the players had been kept in the dark. 

Bar the deaths of course, John would’ve had lockdown drag on forever if it meant everything got to stay as it was. 

He woke up every morning beside Jack’s strong, tan body, and they’d both smirk at each other against the pillows with the same deep, genuine warmth, their faces bathed in the light that slithered through the gaps in the curtains to cast an ethereal glow around the room. 

As energetic as they both were, morning people they were not. Their lie-in’s had become extortionate. Some days they’d stay in bed until dinnertime - though of course, they were doing much more than just lazing about. 

It’d been easy to lose count of how many times they’d had sex, but the daily average was probably a strong two-point-five times. Any ensuing hint of boredom was countered with “shall we just do it?”, and that was that. Jack was soon in ecstasy and John on top of the world. 

There was no talk of topping or bottoming - that was too much ‘gay lingo’ for Jack’s liking - so they’d joke about how Jack liked to be pampered, and poor John had a two-man job. He loved it really - it was the only time he actually felt in control of anything in his life. John liked to give and Jack sure as hell liked to take, and it worked because it was how they showed their affection. 

And as much as they liked to be sarcastic and cutting, they loved showing one another affection. Preferences for the perfect cup of tea were etched into their minds. Jack liked a lot of milk and strictly half a sugar - dishwater, as John described it. John was guilty of having a whopping three-and-a-half sugars with a dash of milk. His ear got chewed off every time Jack volunteered to make the brews. 

“You’d be Ballon d’Or potential if you stopped having so much sugar in your tea,” Jack had said one day. But despite the nagging, he still made it exactly as John asked, an enviable consistency across every new mug that was put in his hand, accompanied by a stroke of his hair.

It felt like a lifetime ago that John had arrived at Jack’s. Two months on and he was a different person; even his Mum had said so over the phone, saying she could practically hear the smile on his face as he spoke. John couldn’t have agreed more, but it broke his heart that he couldn’t tell her why. 

Living with Jack was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was like living with your best mate, only you fancied the fuck out of one another and there was sex - a dream combination. Both were equally needy and the pair rarely found themselves wanting space. On the few occasions they did, one would just go for a jog and come back to find the other in the shower. And showers equalled sex. 

Arguments were never bigger than futile debates such as which Star Wars film was best, or who the greatest midfielder to ever grace the Prem was. It was much more interesting than yelling at each other over shite like finances. 

“But Ronaldo’s a fucking forward!” 

“He plays up front now,” Jack groaned, hands tearing through his hair, “but when he was at United he was a fucking attacking mid!” 

“Even if that was true - which it isn’t - I still don’t think he’s the best midfielder there’s ever been. I don’t even think he’s top three!”

“If Messi’s the best player in the world then that makes Ronaldo the second, so how’s it even up for discussion?”

“Well if we’re talking about who the all-time great is then I value consistency above a few seasons of flair and fancy feet.”

Jack sighed and threw his hands up in the air. “I can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying.” 

“You can’t just say that every time you’re losing the argument!”

“Well you always have to be right!”

“Because I am always right!”

Much more interesting.

John tuned into the outside world for two hours every other day when training was conducted over video call. It had become the extent of all communication with his teammates aside from a few texts here and there. 

There were similar training sessions for Jack, as well as a number of interviews with different news outlets, after which he was always exhausted from apologising for what he’d done at the start of lockdown. 

Just as John had predicted, no-one cared much now. Dominic Cummings had driven to fucking Barnard Castle to ‘test his eyesight’ and if one of the most senior members of government could get away with it most people understood there was no reason to hold a footballer to a higher standard. 

That being said, Kyle had been in the news again for going to visit his family, and after a lengthy Instagram post begging for privacy for the sake of his mental health John felt rather disconnected from his friend. They both had their problems and time had shown they couldn’t provide solace to one another, let alone work it out together. 

Raheem and Kev were the only ones who seemed a bit concerned that John had fallen off the map. He supposed all they knew was that he’d had that incident in the changing room at Sheffield and hadn’t been the same since. John had done all he could to reassure them otherwise, but without physically seeing one another or John admitting he’d been living with Jack, there didn’t seem to be much more he could do.

Besides, John liked it being a secret. He liked the idea that he and Jack were each other’s and no-one else’s, that there was no-one around to be nosey or intrusive. Judgement was something he’d forgotten about entirely; there were no fans to tell him to get out of the club, no Pep to throw side-eyes of disappointment, no Aymeric to get shown up by. 

Their secret, however, had been let slip one day. Thank fuck it was only to two lads who had a secret that was equally as big.

John had strolled into the annex that housed a gym and pool, searching for Jack. Knowing Jack had had a training session earlier that day, he found the man exactly as he’d expected to, floating at the edge of the pool with his elbows up on the side so he could use his phone. 

“Hey, I’ve been texting you, and look at you sat on your bloody phone, ignoring me!” John complained, approaching the pool. “How long you gonna be in there, ‘cause I’m about to start tea.”

Jack glanced up as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t be, his face struck with an expression John couldn’t quite read. 

The blood in John’s veins ran cold as he came within a few feet of Jack and heard a noise echoing from his phone.

“Jack?” a familiar voice called, the sound tinny through the phone speaker. “Is someone there with you?”

John crouched down, realisation hitting him like a tonne of bricks. “Shit…” he mouthed, forcing Jack to read his lips. “Are you— you on FaceTime?”

Jack tilted his phone so the front camera was no longer focused on him, instead pointing over his shoulder at the empty pool behind him. He gave a solitary nod, lips pursed. 

“Well who the fuck you talking to?” John hissed. 

“Jack? You still there?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked. “Who are you talking to?”

Jack returned the phone to its original position, making his face visible to the camera again. “No-one, mate.”

“No-one?” John spluttered aloud. 

“Na, there’s definitely someone there with you. Swear I recognise that voice, too.”

And it just so happened that John recognised that voice. “Is it Del?” he questioned, more relieved than anything else. “It’s Dele, isn’t it?”

He knew Jack and Dele were mates, but he wasn’t sure how close they were. John would consider himself close to Dele - especially after he’d blurted out that he was bisexual during that very drunken, very vulnerable evening - but they weren’t the level of close that meant they FaceTimed. Even though Dele and Dier knew John was bi, there was no chance they knew he was seeing Jack.

John felt his stomach turn. “Why you on FaceTime to Dele?”

Jack pouted and raised his eyebrows, apparently forgetting he hadn’t ended the call. 

“Am I getting a glimpse of what it’s like when John Stones gets all protective?”

“Did I hear that right?” Dele exclaimed, for once not missing a beat. “Did you just say John?” 

John threw his arms up, cover blown. “You just fucking said John!” 

“Yes, I just said John,” Jack declared, turning his attention back to the camera. “No wonder you recognise that voice, eh, Del?”

Dele and Dier absolutely ate up the revelation that John and Jack were living together. They’d been doing the same, holed up in Dele’s huge mansion just outside of London since the start of lockdown. John didn’t mind them knowing; it felt grounding to think they were all in the same boat. 

“We can go for double dates when this is all over!” Dele suggested, that typical-textbook-toothy-grin appearing on his face. 

It was hard for John to say it, but he’d have been resisting muscle memory otherwise. “Fuck off, Del.”

Eric had text John after the four of them had all shown their faces over the phone. In short he said he was proper buzzing for John, hoped it was all working out, and couldn’t resist saying how astounded he was by the fact that John had got up off his arse and stopped wallowing in self-pity for long enough to put himself out there and bag Jack.

Dier | 8:42pm  
Not that you’re not a catch yourself Stonesy x

They were perhaps an unpredictable match, but in John’s eyes Dele and Dier were too. It got John wondering what had attracted him to Jack in the first place. Besides the obvious things (confidence, cockiness, thighs) John had never focused much more on what it was that had inexplicably captured him. 

He’d always been aware of the charm that radiated from Jack; the one that drew everyone in, the one you couldn’t teach or learn, the one that gave you a personality. Who knew - maybe it’d rub off on John.

One thing that had caught John by surprise was his realisation of just how smart and mature Jack actually was. He wouldn’t lie and say he’d automatically assumed it, but once he’d noticed just how often Jack made comments like ‘give me a minute, I’m a bit slow’, or, ‘you’ll have to explain that for me, you smart arse’, he also noticed how Jack saw things in his own confident, resilient way.

He spoke slowly, but he thought about things deeply. If something wasn’t how he wanted it to be he’d ask why, and then he’d set about understanding it. There was no wonder he made such a good captain. John would’ve been envious of how self-assured Jack was if it hadn’t encouraged him to reflect on his own way of life, of how he treated himself.

John was feeling like his old self - a really old self, pre-World Cup, and perhaps even pre-City. He was as confident as he’d been for a long time. He’d never say it aloud, put he’d put it all down to Jack. Not just because he was happy, or because he felt accepted, but his entire outlook had changed. He’d been a glass-half-empty-person for way too long. Jack was undeniably the opposite, and John had so much respect for it.

They spoke about everything. That was, everything apart from work. Neither of them were very interested in discussing their current situations; for John, it was the boot, and for Jack, it was relegation. For the time being though, it was just them. 

They could pretend they weren’t footballers, weren’t John Stones and Jack Grealish. One an England international who’d played the most minutes of the entire squad at the World Cup, save for Pickford. The other an adored local lad who’d become Captain of his boyhood club at twenty-three and got them back into the Premier League. 

At home they were just John and Jack, filling their days with Tiger King and White Lines and whatever else was on the Netflix homepage. They’d put Beetlejuice on one night and Jack was fucking bewildered by it, eyes lit up at the screen like a child. Back to the Future and Ghostbusters were shared childhood favourites, and watching them always led to Jack begging John to do an American accent that they’d both decided was pretty fucking good. 

Jack soon uncovered John had a bit of a hidden talent for accents, his Irish the pick of the bunch. Naturally he could do Mancunian as if he’d lived there all along, and his Scouse wasn’t far off either, if not a bit comical. He couldn’t do Brummie to save his life, which Jack absolutely loved, treating John’s failure as if it was some kind of competition. 

“Jack, love, you can’t even call what you’ve got a Brummie accent.”

“What is it then?”

“Fucking beats me,” John scoffed. “Say music.”

“No.”

“Go on, just say it.”

“No, I’m not bloody saying it.”

“Please, Jack. Please. Just the once.”

“What’s your fucking obsession with the way I say music?”

“Moo-zick,” John repeated, his imitation sounding more like Jack than Jack ever had himself. “Hey, Jack - what do cows do when they’re bored?”

“Fuck off, John.” 

“They listen to moo-zick.”

It turned out Jack’s hidden talent was that he was a bit of maestro when it came to cooking. He gave off Gordon Ramsey vibes in the way he swore at John whenever he tried to help, saying he was interrupting his flow, a scolding which John didn’t mind at all as it meant he could sit back and watch. 

There was something about the way Jack threw a tea-towel over his shoulder, laid his hands on his hips, and narrowed his eyes in concentration as he attempted to make sense of the recipe he’d intended to follow. More often that not he ended up ignoring the guidance completely, but the food seemed to miraculously turn out better that way. 

They drunk red wine with their meals like fucking adults and played Motown classics in the background. The extent of Jack’s musical knowledge was bizarre - he knew the words to almost every song that played, and he had a soft spot for stuff from the sixties and seventies. Candi Staton was his favourite; he said her music reminded him of car journeys with his parents when he was younger.

Jack couldn’t sing to save his fucking life though, and nor could John, but that didn’t stop them screaming the house down. Thank fuck the nearest neighbours were almost half-a-mile away.

Apart from the occasional supermarket trips (for which they took turns, surgical masks and caps meaning neither of them had been recognised) their only other interaction with the outside world had been when Jack’s family would come around. They stayed in the garden, socially distanced of course, more than aware another slip-up for Jack could be costly. 

They were none the wiser as to John’s presence, so he’d hide upstairs for a few hours as Jack did the entertaining. He’d have a bath or sit in the spare room, usually forcing himself to be productive, watching videos he’d asked one of the coaching staff to put together of his most recent games and where he’d gone wrong. 

All too often he’d find himself zoning out, wondering if it would make a difference whether he was a woman. The answer was of course it fucking would; he wouldn’t be left upstairs on his own as Jack sat with his family outside, pretending for the time being that John didn’t exist. If he was a lass he’d be downstairs making the brews for everyone before perching on Jack’s lap, adding anecdotes to the conversation and joking with the in-laws. 

He supposed if he was a woman Jack might not fancy him as much as he did. That wasn’t the point, though. The point was that as much as John and Jack liked one another, it was still weird, strange, not normal, to everyone else that they knew, that two lads of their status wanted to be together. 

The idea of that was long forgotten when Jack eventually knocked on the door, his parents and sisters gone, allowing him to stroll over and press his body against John’s who more than willingly accepted the contact. 

John’s birthday fell at the end of May. He’d contemplated not bringing it up just to see how bad Jack would feel when it got to the day, and his way of learning about it would be a few Instagram posts that read ‘happy birthday Stonesy’, but John couldn’t bring himself to be as cruel as that.

“Do you wanna do something on Thursday?” he’d asked as casually as possible at breakfast one morning, not quite able to drop the b-word. He was worried Jack might feel pressured to fuss over him, to buy him presents. “Maybe go somewhere for a hike or something. Yorkshire Dales are nice.”

Jack had frowned over his bowl of Weetabix. “Well I know we can’t exactly go down the pub, John, but you wanna spend your twenty-sixth on a walk?”

“Oh—” John murmured, sitting up. “So you know it’s my birthday, then?”

“Who’d you think I am?” he scoffed, seemingly disappointed John had thought so little of him. “Bet you don’t have a clue when my birthday is, do you?”

“It’s the tenth of September, I’ll have you know. I’ve read your Wikipedia page.” 

“Oh yeah? Have they added a section about me breaking lockdown yet?”

John had wondered what Jack would do for the big occasion considering his suggestion of a walk had been turned down so promptly. He got the impression Jack had something up his sleeve, quite literally a party-trick of sorts. He certainly wouldn’t be let down, whatever was done.

Jack had said nothing the night before, and when John awoke on the morning of his birthday, he found for the first time that he was waking up alone. That was enough to drive him to his feet even if he’d have wanted to stay under the covers for another hour or so.

He lazily brushed his teeth and then set about wandering downstairs. The sight he was greeted with was only what he could describe as something like Christmas morning when he was a kid; Jack had decorated with balloons and flowers, and had constructed a mountain of immaculately-wrapped presents around the coffee table. The curtains of the large windows into the living-room were drawn, and the sun was triumphantly bright, illuminating everywhere with a golden glow. 

“Was wondering when you’d wake up,” was the greeting John was given, before being handed a glass of champagne by a still-sleepy, messy-haired, beaming Jack. 

John was breathless. He’d expected a card and a brew. Jack had made an effort, a real effort, all unprovoked. 

“This is all for me?”

“Who the fuck d’you think it’s for?” Jack laughed. “That glass of bubbly gone to your head already?” 

“Champagne at this time?” was all John could think to say.

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” Jack smirked, downing the liquid in his glass before reaching for John’s free hand in order to clasp it in his. “That’s what they say, innit?”

John tutted, stomach all fluttery. “What would the manager say if he could see you now?” 

“Probably summat like, ‘that’s no surprise to me, lad. I’ve known you liked lads since I first laid eyes on you. Just save us from relegation, please, so I don’t get the sack’.”

“Not about this,” John cackled, nodding to the affectionate way their fingers were laced together. “About the fact you’re drinking at ten in the morning, you plonker.”

“Again, probably something along the lines of, ‘couldn't care less, please save us from relegation so I don’t get the sack’. Now what do you want for breakfast?”

Spontaneity led to pancakes, and Jack ordered John to open his presents as they ate. He’d been well and truly spoiled; Jack’s reasoning for gifting John what looked like an entire section of the Trafford Centre was that he was sick of John borrowing his clothes. Funny that, because everything Jack had bought was definitely his style, and there was no doubt he’d be trying it on in no time. John loved the idea of it though. Sharing clothes was just another thing that made them feel closer. 

The rest of the day was blissful. After returning to the bedroom and ensuring they had their routine morning sex they decided to actually make themselves presentable and get dressed, John really feeling like a kid on Christmas, waiting for the rest of the family to come around. It was a shame that wouldn’t be happening though, and despite Jack offering to free the day up for John to go see his parents it was turned down. 

They’d spent two months together but John couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than spend the day with Jack, quality time being his love language. They did end up going on a walk, admittedly only because Jack said there was honestly nothing else he could think of to do, what with their options being limited - no understatement. 

While they rarely met passers-by on their secluded walk, John had expected to feel the fear of being recognised creeping up on him, the terror it’d get out that he and Jack were together. Only ten minutes after they’d got out the car Jack had grabbed John’s hand and held it firmly, before smiling at the sight of John’s expression of worry, washing away the feeling altogether. 

He wasn’t one for being soppy, or at least he hoped not, but it didn’t stop him thinking that that was the best present he could receive; Jack’s unbridled affection, his support, a pledge not to act like they weren’t together.

The rest of the day was spent with Jack cooking, eventually ending up with far too much food for the two of them to consume. There’d be a bollocking in order if the nutritionists knew. Add the amount of wine drunk to it and there was no chance of either of them seeing out ninety minutes of football in the near future.

The evening was remarkably warm, and the pair sat outside, wrapped around each other as they told stories and spoke about their teammates all while still managing to flirt incessantly.

“When was the last time you scored?” Jack asked, the question not a usual subject they'd discuss. 

“Must be two years ago now,” John sighed. “World Cup, group stage against Panama. Six-one, Harry Kane hat-trick. Pickford fuming that we hadn’t kept a clean sheet. Not my fault, though. Was Delph’s.”

“‘Course it was Delph’s fault. Yours were two headers, weren’t they?”

“Yeah. Second was a bit of a scrappy one, but I won’t complain.”

“You had a good tournament from what I remember.”

“I’d agree with that if we’d have actually won it.”

Jack smiled to himself, well aware of John’s inability to take compliments. “When did you last score before that?”

“Not sure I can even remember,” John admitted, having to rack his brains a bit. “Napoli, I think, or maybe Feyenoord. Can’t remember which was first, but they were both in 2017, Champions League. Scored twice against Feyenoord in the same game, actually.”

“Like a brace, do you?” Jack asked, mock-impressed. 

“Suppose I rarely score, but when I do, I seem to score twice.” 

“All that says is that the other side are shite at defending set pieces, doesn’t it?” 

“If that was true you’d have thought I might’ve scored against your lot.”

Jack rolled his eyes but was unable to hide his amusement. They were both quiet for a few moments, taking the time to appreciate the evening sun on their skin and the warmth radiating from one another.

“D’you wanna get back to it?”

“Back to playing?” John asked, a nostalgic sensation of uncertainty falling over him. “Yes… and no.”

“No?”

“I like this,” he answered. “I like just waking up and not having the responsibility of a match looming over me. Not panicking as soon as I open my eyes that I’ll perform shit in the next game. And I like spending time with you, which I wouldn’t have been able to do if everything was as normal.”

“I like it too. Doesn’t stop, though, does it, as soon as we start playing again? We can still do this.”

John’s eyes lit up at Jack’s words of affirmation. “We can?”

“Well I’m not dumping you just ‘cause I need to save Villa from relegation,” Jack chuckled, in disbelief that such a simple statement had made John glow with so much hope. “You’re staying with me. This isn’t temporary.”

This isn’t temporary. The words made a lump swell in John’s throat and caused his heart to thump against his ribcage. He hadn’t felt relief like this for some time. 

He prayed Jack would recognise the gratitude in the sentence he just about managed to form. “Thank fuck for that, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Jack nodded, lips pressed together in a wide smile. “Happy birthday, John.”

“Thank you. And I really mean that.”

“I know you do.”


	13. arsenal at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long and clunky but the anger from jack being called up to england without john fuelled me to finish this chapter i've had sat in the drafts for aaages lol southgate out !

It had never been very out of character for John to feel like a nervous wreck before a training session, but his lockdown-self had expected more from him than tears on the first day back.

He’d felt like a baby bird leaving the nest for the first time. The training session was scheduled for ten, and a dreaded two hour drive from Jack’s back up to Manchester meant that John was forced to get out of bed just after seven. There was no chance he’d woken up that early in a matter of months - as he brushed his teeth he could’ve sworn he had a headache just from the lack of a lie-in.

Jack, on the other hand, had already been back in training for a couple of weeks. There’d been an unmistakeable leap in his energy levels, and he was more than happy to bound out of bed at the same time as John, ready and waiting with a cup of tea as John emerged from the shower. John had no idea how he was able to constantly hold his head so high, especially with Villa sat in nineteenth. 

“Come on, you must at least be a little bit excited,” Jack had teased once he caught sight of John’s mopey expression. 

To be honest, John was buzzing to see some of the lads again. He’d secretly missed Kyle, and he’d certainly missed Kev, Raz, Kun, and Bernardo. Hell, he’d even weirdly missed Ederson. 

But there was one particular individual that he’d only started to miss within the past few days, and miss very intensely. At the same time he was consumed with guilt and dread at the very thought of coming face to face with him. Leroy was still hanging around, scheduled to join everyone in full training as if nothing had changed. 

While Jack had become more focused, reinvigorated by being back out on the training pitches, John had grown jittery, envisioning what would happen when he and Leroy were finally forced to acknowledge one another’s existence again. 

John hadn’t said a word of it to Jack. He’d come close a few times, he really had, and as much as he trusted Jack with both his head and his heart, it seemed unthinkable that it wouldn’t make Jack see him in a different light. He was sort of wishing he had told him now though, car keys in one hand, the other clinging desperately to the front-door handle. 

“D’you think I could just say I’ve got Covid?”

“Get your arse in that car now and go show Pep what he’s been missing.”

“I could fail to turn up for weeks and Pep wouldn’t even file a missing person’s report. Only thing he’d be pissed about would be the fact he hadn’t managed to pass me on for ten million.”

“You’re worth a bit more than that, I think.”

“Depends. We’ll have to see if I can hold off on an injury for more than a month.”

Jack couldn’t take much more self-deprecation but managed to spare John the pain of a motivational rant, instead lathering him with parting kisses before pushing him out the door. 

The drive up to Manchester felt a bit surreal; he hadn’t strayed this far since the start of lockdown. His head was doing a classic spin, threatening him with an image of Leroy standing in the middle of the dressing room and declaring John was bent, or someone producing police-drama-esque black and white images of he and Jack kissing and plastering them around the whole training ground. He knew his thoughts were stupid and borderline impossible, but that didn’t stop them from being conjured up.

By the time he pulled in to the campus and lined up behind a number of other cars to await a coronavirus test he’d convinced himself that something was bound to go wrong. What if his teammates noticed he was acting a bit differently, a bit more feminine, a bit gayer? Was that a thing? Some of Jack’s vocabulary had slipped into his - he’d even started saying music a bit funny from the amount of times he’d mocked Jack. All it took was for one person to pick up on it. 

He was distracted for a few moments as he was instructed to wind down his window before a swab was stuck up his nose, and a second dragged along the back of his throat. 

“Impressive. You didn’t gag,” the person doing the test had the audacity to tell him. “Most people usually gag.”

Just another thing to be paranoid about, then. The blowjob-giving skills John had swiftly developed over lockdown had been the last thing he’d expected to give him away. 

He parked up and mentally attempted to set his head straight before heading inside. A buzz came from his phone, and a reminder of the thoughtfulness of the man he’d spent the last few months with almost did the task for him. 

Jack | 9:42am  
Hope you’ve not still got a moody face on! Just enjoy being back out there don’t think about anything else. Already waiting for you to come home x

That was all John needed to get him out the car. 

The mood in the dressing room made John feel high. They’d been told to stay as far apart as possible, but that was never going to happen. Everyone wanted to give one another a clap on the back, catch up, to talk to someone other than the people they’d been holed up with. There was jokes about the state of everyone’s hair, the noticeable pounds a few of them had put on, and when they were out on the pitch there was no escaping a laugh about how slow and out of breath the lot of them were.

Leroy was fashionably late; nothing new. John fell a little quiet as he caught sight of the man from the corner of his eye, but the way Raheem and Kyle formed an unspoken kind of protective circle around John distracted him from the sick-feeling in his stomach. 

It was like the man was a ghost, unable to pass on from City, haunting the dressing room simply because he could. 

The way Leroy put on his training gear and went about joking with everyone as if nothing was happening behind the scenes completely rubbed John the wrong way. They all knew how this went; Leroy was nearing the end of his contract, and he’d have signed another if he wanted to stay, one that promised a higher wage and bigger bonuses. There was a reason he hadn’t done that, and everyone knew.

The first few hours of training were spent monitoring the squad’s individual fitness. They were mostly kept apart, working individually with the physios to determine the inevitable drops in their stamina and muscle mass. John was pleasantly surprised to hear his fitness had hardly deteriorated and everything seemed to be in working condition. 

He could breathe easy in the second half of the session when the squad was split into four groups, attackers and defenders mixed. John was put in with David, Cancelo, Kun, and a few of the academy lads. Leroy was out of sight, far over on one of the usually-unused pitches. 

They were set up to do basic drills, John in front of goal with the usual suspects looking to make their way through. David and Kun made for a painfully difficult duo, lockdown clearly not even a chip off their shoulder. If John was meant to be shooting the other way and they were keeping count he’d have reckoned they’d be down by double figures.

Still, he couldn’t complain. The burn in his legs was refreshingly welcome, and his huffs of breath pushed him on. Pep had been prowling, circling each group with those beady black eyes of his, and John was more than aware of his presence.

For what felt like the hundredth time John was faced with David coming towards him, working the ball around his ankles as if it was attached to his feet by an invisible string. A metre away and he faked a feint before releasing the ball, intending for Kun to be the recipient. 

John reckoned he could get a foot in. The tip of his boot got to the ball, stopping the connection, but it seemed Sergio had different intentions.

Kun’s studs came down on John’s ankle, and a searing pain rippled through the skin. An even weirder turn of events immediately followed, as on his way to the floor John fell forward, smashing heads with Sergio. 

The pain then was even worse, and his vision began to fade at the edges. Everything turned black for a terrifying few moments, and he could hear his heartbeat thumping deep in his ears. He couldn’t move or do anything about it; all he felt was an ache deep in his skull.

He had no idea whether he’d fully blacked out. But when his vision finally returned he found one of their coaches crouched beside him, his teammates stood at a safe distance. 

“John? You alright?”

“My head hurts.” He blinked a few times, eventually noticing the way he was splayed out on the ground, ankle at a worrying angle. “More worried about my ankle, actually.”

“You’re bleeding, cut yourself above your eyebrow.”

John tentatively reached for the spot, fingertips returning with a smear of blood. “Oh, shit. Is Sergio okay?” 

Sergio was fine, apart from the fact he’d never been the apologetic type, but he insisted on acting as a crutch for John to limp away on as he was rushed to the medical room. He stayed beside John who lay pathetically on the medical table, muttering curse words to himself in Spanish, his eyes darkened by the guilt he was feeling. 

It wasn’t long before John’s worst fears were confirmed. His ankle was sprained quite severely, trod on in exactly the wrong place. 

“And how long out is that?” he murmured quietly, palms pressed over his face.

“I’d say we’re looking at six weeks, John,” the physio told him, sounding almost as gutted as John felt. “As for the knock on your head, it’s just a small concussion. I’m so sorry, mate.”

John just about managed to hold back his tears. If not for his sake, it was for Sergio’s. He looked as if he was about to smash the place up. John might’ve joined him if he’d been able to stand up. If anyone other than Kun had been the culprit he might’ve had to take his anger out on them too. Everyone knew what another injury blow meant for John.

“Couldn’t fucking write it, could you?”

“Johnny, lo siento. Lo siento mucho.”

“Not your fault, Kun,” he insisted, voice descending to a whisper. “Not at all.” 

A few more tests were run and preliminary treatment was given. He was told there was nothing more he could do than stay off his ankle and allow it to heal, which somehow felt worse than being told he’d need surgery. 

The session must’ve finished, because the room was soon populated with prying eyes, wanting to see which prat had managed to get injured on the very first day back. Ding ding ding, John Stones had won the grand prize. 

“Jeez, John, you’re fucking cursed, mate,” Raheem sneered. 

David shook his head at Raheem, apparently not liking his tone. “Not cursed. Unlucky.”

“You can fucking say that again,” John whined, glaring up at the ceiling. “How the fuck am I meant to drive home?”

Raheem chuckled to himself for some reason unknown to John. “Well I’m sure one of us can give you a lift, John.” 

“You can’t fucking give me a lift all the way back home, can you?”

“What you on about?” Raheem frowned. “Mendy and Bernardo live in the same building as you, don’t they? Can’t really say no to that.”

It suddenly hit John like a tonne of bricks that no-one had any idea he’d been living two hours away in Birmingham. 

“I meant, like… with all the Covid rules, and that,” he mumbled, scrambling for an excuse. “Can’t be in the same cars, can we?”

“Well an Uber’s only like, six quid back to yours, and that’s allowed. Just give your keys to someone and I’m sure they’ll drop your car round later.”

“Cheers, Raz,” John said through gritted teeth. “Knock on the head has made it difficult for me to think straight, eh?”

At least that part was honest. His mind was racing, his pride hurt at the thought of having to tell Jack, as well as the worry of whether he’d even be able to go back down to Birmingham. Eventually John was left alone in the room, awaiting one of the coaching team to come and assess him. He felt fucking lame as he lay against the bed, once again useless and unwanted.

He’d asked Raheem to bring him his phone, realising telling Jack the news sooner rather than later was his best possible option. 

“I’m coming to pick you up. I’ll set off now.”

“No, Jack, don’t bother yourself. You have training early tomorrow.”

“It’s only two in the afternoon, you absolute muppet.” 

“It’s a long drive.”

“I like driving.”

“But you can’t pick me up from here, can you? What if someone sees you?”

“Jesus Christ. By the sounds of it you’d rather I didn’t come get you.” 

“Of course I want you to,” John sighed, having to hold back tears of frustration. His free hand was dug into his curls, helplessly tearing at the hair. “Just… just hate feeling like a nuisance.” 

“This is a classic case of John Stones thinking no-one cares about him. Thankfully, I know exactly how to sort it,” Jack declared. “Right, here’s the plan. You get a lift back to your flat. Sit back, don’t eat - ‘cause I’ll get us some food - then you just get in my car and we drive home. Sound simple enough?”

Once again, John was blown away by Jack’s unswayable persistence. He knew he wasn’t exactly moving heaven and earth for him, but he’d never had someone tell him how it was quite like this, or treat him how he should be treated. 

“Alright, I’m convinced.” 

“Too right. Chin up, eh?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sit tight.”

“Will do.”

“See you in a bit. I love you.” 

John felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. 

He didn’t even have the chance to reply. The dial tone blared down his ear, leaving him breathless. Against his will, tears flooded his eyes. Had he heard that right? He hadn’t imagined that, had he? Jack had said—

A sudden bang at the door made John raise his head. The sight in front of him was enough to make him feel faint again.

Leroy was hovering in the doorway. It seemed unclear why he was even there; he was alone, dressed and showered, ready to go home. Soft brown lips parted, eyes wide with confusion; he hadn’t changed one bit.

What a state to catch John in. Teary and frantic, lightheaded from the concussion, unable to get to his feet, reeling from Jack’s words. Oh, it must’ve looked like quite the fucking scene. 

“Jesus, John,” Leroy whispered, grasping the door frame with his slender fingers. “Are you okay?”

Well - he’d just suffered a concussion, been told he was out for a month on the first day back, had been told by someone that they loved him when he hadn’t even begun to comprehend the existence of emotions like that, and now he had to deal with the last person on earth he’d ever want to speak to. Some fucking comic timing, that. Not cursed, David had said - just unlucky. Very fucking unlucky. 

In as polite a tone as he could muster, John choked out, “Fuck off, please, Leroy.” 

The expression on Leroy’s concerned face told John it was the last thing he wanted to do. After a moment of internal debate, he obeyed, floating away just as silently as he’d arrived. 

-

Being left alone and unable to exercise freely meant John could do one thing, and one thing only. Overthink. 

He’d convinced himself his career was over. He wouldn’t play, the fans would think he was useless, Pep would get rid of him on the cheap, he’d go to a shit club, Southgate would drop him, and he’d fade into obscurity. On second thought, that scenario didn’t sound all that bad. 

There was no denying Jack had noticed the shift in John’s behaviour. Every other day came a Villa training session which meant Jack had to leave John to his own devices, no longer there to wait on him hand and foot, to fill the dark spaces of his mind that drifted off into thoughts of career failure with encouragement and motivation. 

To anyone on the outside looking in John had just suffered another typical injury setback. All players had them, some more than others, John more than many. He’d questioned time and again why it happened so often to him; was he not warming up enough, not eating right, or was it a genetic thing? Did he have weak bones and limp muscles?

If he had a quid for every time he’d been told he was simply unlucky he could’ve doubled his fortune. 

John was convinced Jack was superhuman. His patience was unbelievable. If the shoe was on the other foot, and it was Jack moping about all day, feeling sorry for himself, John probably would’ve blown his temper with him. Not out of annoyance or disgust, but more at the fact he couldn’t bear for Jack to think of himself in such a bad light. 

He was a ray of sunshine, beaming confidence and charisma and ambition. John was feeling anything but. They were like black and white, hot and cold. If anything, he felt bad for Jack for having to put up with it.

Nothing more had been said about the parting words Jack had uttered at the end of the phone call John had made after his injury. John had tormented himself by running the situation over and over in his head, the moment punctuated by Leroy’s poorly-timed intrusion. 

It was just classic comedy timing, wasn’t it, but he had absolutely no-one to tell his misfortune to.

One morning after Jack had left for training John went about his routine of skimming the news, seeing what dystopian shite could distract him from his own problems. 

The transfer window was fast approaching, and as always, rumours were beginning to swirl. Only it seemed Pep had had enough. The top story that morning was Pep declaring Leroy was done at the club. They’d offered him a new contract two or three times and he’d refused.

“He wants to leave the club.” A year of pissing about and Pep had finally lost his temper with Leroy. “He wants to leave the club,” he’d announced in his presser.

Guilt was the overwhelming sensation that John felt. Maybe if things had been different, maybe if there hadn’t been this rift between them… na, Leroy was already well and truly decided on his future. Logic said so. He’d had his time at City, and it had been great, but now he wanted to go home. It was nothing to do with John, surely.

All John could do was hope and pray the business got done and dusted as soon as possible. He didn’t want to have to face Leroy when his injury eventually subsided.

Another day of Jack being at training and John checking the news brought something new for him to panic about. Headlines everywhere read that if Leroy left City, City were eyeing up a very familiar man as his replacement. Jack. 

That just couldn’t happen. It was a classic case scenario; it’d tear them apart. They wouldn’t be able to hide. Dele and Dier had done it, but they weren’t Dele and Dier. John was a liability from every way you looked at it. Didn’t have the mentality to hide.

When Jack arrived home John stumbled around the issue, meekly asking, “Have you seen what they’re saying about you maybe leaving Villa?”

“All talk, innit,” Jack shrugged. Did he know it, too? Know that such a move would be fatal for them? “I’d never say no to City, but I don’t think it’ll happen. I don’t think it’s even true.”

“Are you thinking… thinking about a move at all?” John questioned. Villa were in the relegation zone with a handful of games to play, trying to claw themselves out. It didn’t make sense for Jack to stay if they were relegated, was a better player than that, and everyone knew it. “Have you spoken to anyone?”

“Honestly haven’t thought about it,” he answered, brushing it off. “We won’t get relegated. I’ll see to it.”

As much as John adored Jack, marvelled in his confidence, all signs pointed to Villa going back down.

The third news story to shake John in the space of the week was courtesy of the Prem’s biggest gob from a club that most certainly were going down. Troy Deeney had given an interview stating he reckoned every Premier League team had at least one gay or bi player amongst their ranks, and they were probably too scared to come out because of the reaction they’d get.

Well no shit. Things like Deeney’s opinion didn’t help, either. It didn’t raise awareness, or make John feel any safer. It just brought out vile hatred from the fans of every club, sending any such players further into hiding.

Deeney was far from wrong though, and John knew it. It made him feel a bit sick.

The morning of the first Premier League games since lockdown started soon rolled around. As fate would have it, Villa vs Sheffield United was the first of the draw, followed an hour later by City vs Arsenal. John was still in no state to play and so would have the honour of watching on from home. 

Jack leapt out of bed as if he had no pressure on him whatsoever. As he showered John limped downstairs, still not completely healed, and prepared breakfast for Jack.

He wondered how City would lineup at the back for their game. Aymeric and Ferna, probably. Hopefully not Garcia, anyway. Things were bad enough for John career-wise; he didn’t need an Academy graduate showing him up as well. 

John could hear Jack coming from a mile off, bounding up behind him with relentless energy. 

He aimed a glance over his shoulder, confused to find Jack with a panic-stricken expression.

“You alright?”

“You not heard what’s happened with Dele and Dier?”

“What?” John frowned, folding his arms over his chest. Jack looked a bit shaken, a bit out of sorts. “Well, you gonna tell me then?”

“Some scumbags broke into Del’s house, took a load of his watches, bags, shite like that.”

“Jesus, is he okay? Not hurt, is he?”

“Read that they took a lunge at his face with a knife, but I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Fuck me,” John muttered. “We’ll have to give him a call, check in on him.”

“That’s not the worst part, though,” Jack tutted, seemingly having snapped out of his initial daze of disbelief.

“What’s worse than that?”

“Obviously, right, he panicked and called the police. But he didn’t realise that of course, Eric was there, and Eric’s been living there with him since lockdown started,” Jack explained. “But it was too late by that point and the police arrived, saw Eric.”

“But… but if they’ve been living together,” John murmured, “they’ve done nothing wrong.”

Jack raised his eyebrows, confident that John would soon put two and two together without any help.

“You’re taking the piss… they’ve lied and said Eric’s just gone ‘round for the night, so they wouldn’t have to admit they’re living together, haven’t they,” John said, an uneasy feeling settling in the pit of his stomach. “Which would mean they’ve broken lockdown, when they haven’t, not at all.”

“Spot on. And it’s out there, it’s all over Twitter,” Jack added, confirming the worst. “So now not only does it look like they’ve broken lockdown—”

“It’s just more evidence for anyone who already suspects they’re together, too.” 

After a few moments of silence, Jack looked John dead in the eyes. 

“I think they should just come out.”

“Are you being serious?” John scoffed, not even processing the concept. “No. No chance.” 

“Perfect opportunity.”

“Sounds far from fucking perfect to me. Could ruin their careers.”

“Could ruin their fucking lives, babe, if they have to keep it quiet for the rest of their careers,” Jack sighed, nonchalant as ever as he refused to be broken down by John’s negativity. “I’ve got to go. Wish me luck for the game. I’ll see you later.” 

“Good luck,” John mumbled feebly. He accepted a kiss, but both of them knew John was already mulling over the very few words they’d just exchanged, overthinking the scenario and what it meant too much to put effort into anything else. 

It didn’t just impact Dele and Dier, but John and Jack as well, and every other gay player too.

It turned out Villa needed the luck Jack had asked for. John watched, gobsmacked, as a fuck-up with the goal-line technology meant that Sheffield had a goal ruled out. Could be the difference between relegation and surviving, that, he thought. Certainly had been the difference between City pipping Liverpool to the post of Premier League champions last season; John’s greatest and only achievement for quite some time.

He was completely enticed watching Jack back at his best again out on the pitch. The pride he felt from knowing he’d been given such a significant spot in Jack’s life was counteracted by the shame that no-one could know. It was that thing, wasn’t it, the uncertainty, the fear, the fact it could never, ever happen. 

Villa’s game finished nil-nil, and City had a comfortable three-nil win over Arsenal. Didn’t really matter; they were just prolonging the inevitable at this point, which was Liverpool taking the Prem from them. 

Garcia had been fucking clattered by Ederson, so badly he’d been carried off on a stretcher, motionless. John supposed it would’ve been him who’d have been wiped out if he wasn’t injured. Silver linings and that, eh?

John found himself being excessively needy with Jack when he eventually returned home around midnight. 

“What’s got into you, eh?” Jack questioned, pleasantly surprised by the way he’d been met with a shower of kisses. “Mister-I-usually-hate-people-in-my-personal-space.”

“Just seeing you on telly and that. Was a bit sexy, really.”

“Can’t wait ’til you’re back on the Sky Box. Might record it so I can have a wank over it on demand.”

John shoved Jack playfully, taunting him with a nod of his head.

“Well, you might be waiting some time for that, love.” 

Jack shook his head, all but expecting the way John had put himself down. 

“Thank God I’ve got you here, now, then,” he declared, lovingly wrapping his arms around John’s lanky torso.


	14. newcastle away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w - leroy sane and john unable to process his emotions lol

City’s spirits were low - John’s even lower - and nothing personified the mood more than being sat in the deserted stands of St. James’ Park, grey skies overhead, forced to watch Andy Carroll go toe to toe with Kevin De Bruyne. 

The squad were in a sulk because Liverpool had finally, fucking finally, won the bloody title. It’d been City’s job to prolong it as much as they could, but a loss to Chelsea in which Ferna had been sent off for a spectacularly clumsy challenge was embarrassing for all, and Pep had been far from impressed.

John hadn’t so much as touched a blade of grass on the pitch, but Pep had a way of making everyone, even the unused subs, feel like it was singlehandedly their fault. It would be an understatement to say their season had been one to forget. It was probably the worst of John’s career so far, actually. That thought did little to perk him up.

He supposed it’d come at the cost of the progression he’d made in his personal life, not that it had felt progressive before his time with Jack. John’s heart burned with warmth at even the mention of his name. He’d been nursed back to health by him, supported and cared for, all while dealing with his own pressure at Villa. 

It made John feel like the guiltiest fucker alive. And it was only getting worse, day upon day, as John returned home, shattered from not being physically up to speed and treading on thin ice around his teammates. 

Like clockwork, being back in training had stoked up John’s anxiety and paranoia to pre-lockdown levels. He felt it at work, but found brief respite at home, pulled into safety by the strength of Jack’s gravity. 

Jack had noticed, but John got the impression he didn’t want to make a fuss of it. He still cuddled up to him on the sofa, sang at the top of his lungs around the house, flirted and play fought and teased John mercilessly when they were in bed. 

But that was just Jack, and nothing got to him. Something was chipping away at John deep inside, and he was coming to realise that it was the horrific fear he wasn’t good enough for Jack, wasn’t the partner he deserved.

It was also the fact that the seat he’d been allocated in the stands was one of the furthest from the bench. They’d been spread out for social distancing measures, two rows between every player, which meant John was halfway up the first tier. If Pep had wanted to send him a message, John had received it loud and clear - he wouldn’t be playing today. 

And to make matters much, much worse, the person sat two rows behind him just so happened to be that prying cunt with the curly black hair and unimpressed scowl who was just biding his time.

John had done well to avoid Leroy. He’d had to go out of his way, sitting near the front of the bus, showering late, and giving up his usual spot in the changing room. It wasn’t too difficult, because as the rest of the squad eventually realised Leroy would soon be gone, the importance he’d once held in the team was fading away, turning him into a background character. 

Leroy didn’t suit that role in the story. Nor did John, but he’d come to live with it. Jack gave him all the attention he needed.

He wondered what Jack would ever say if he found out about how enamoured he’d been with Leroy. He’d never really seemed jealous or protective over John, whereas John had made it clear a few times that Tyrone bloody Mings was to keep his hands off Jack in training, and that Chilwell needed to stop commenting on his Insta pics. 

John supposed the difference there was that Jack and Ben had, at one point, shared a mutual attraction. In plainer terms - they’d been shagging. John’s wariness for their relationship was warranted. 

John and Leroy on the other hand… well, that relationship was inexistent, and always had been.

There’d been nothing said throughout the first half. A gap in the stands leading to the concourse separated John and Leroy from the rest of the subs and the bench, putting a good ten feet or so between the pair of them anyone else. 

John was hyperaware of any little noises Leroy made, from the way he cleared his throat to the scoffs he exaggerated whenever the ball blazed over the crossbar. He could’ve been certain Leroy was trying to make eye contact with him in the changing room during Pep’s halftime rant, but he’d kept his eyes firmly set on the floor.

In the second half, back in their seats, the dreaded confrontation finally came.

“You know, I was offered two hundred thousand a week to stay?”

John thought he’d misheard the words Leroy had spoken, or had maybe even imagined the sentence as it hung in the air. But there was no-one else close enough to have heard. 

There was no doubt about it - it was meant for John. He was torn between ignoring Leroy altogether or just laughing pitifully to himself. But he was bound to cave, curiosity getting the better of him. 

John slowly turned his neck and raised his gaze to take a look at Leroy. Their eyes met for a split second before Leroy looked away, forcing his attention toward the pitch. John did the same, clearing his throat as he shifted in his seat. 

“Two hundred thousand?” he mused, somehow managing to keep his cool. These were the very first words they’d exchanged since the argument. A sense of bitterness had brewed between them. It was obvious neither had quite forgiven the other, and there was no surprise about it. “And how much are Bayern going to pay you?” he retorted, every word snide, but Leroy was asking for it. 

“Four hundred a week. Thirty thousand assist bonus.”

John whistled through his teeth condescendingly. “Must’ve been a tough decision to make then, eh?” 

Leroy ignored John’s sarcasm. “It’s going to be done by next week,” he murmured, the words sounding heavy in his throat. “This is probably the last time I’ll ever wear a City shirt.” 

John wasn’t sure if Leroy could see his face from the angle he was sat at. If he could, he’d have been able to see the colour drain from John’s cheeks. But he supposed it didn’t matter whether his morbid expression was visible or not. His silence and the way his shoulders had tightened up, an oncoming sulk washing over his body in waves, gave him away in a heartbeat. 

“I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear that, anyway,” Leroy added curtly, practically gagging for a reaction. 

John straightened his body out, knees knocking against the seat in front of him. He took a deep breath and tried to envision a weight lifting off his shoulders. It didn’t help much - the weight had just transferred to his chest, crushing him that way instead. John couldn’t believe it was all as easy for Leroy as ditching the club without even giving him so much as an apology. It made him realise that if he could be proud of himself for anything it would be that he was better than that, would never stoop to that level. 

“Well, if that’s what you want,” he shrugged, looking up at the sky, “then yeah, I’m happy for you, Leroy.”

“Come on, I’m trying to talk to you. Look at me when you speak to me, John.”

John debated ignoring the request, but even now he still found himself wrapped around Leroy’s little finger. He turned his body sideways so he was leaning over the back of the seat, forced to make eye contact. When Leroy was happy it was obvious, but any other emotion and the man looked like he was going to knife you, all angry, disappointed, and upset all at the same time. A lump formed in John’s throat, but unlike times past, he didn’t feel the sudden onset of anxiety and panic. 

“What d’you want me to say?” he questioned, voice clear and strong. “Congratulations. You’re off to Bayern where you’ll win a whole lot and do some great things for your national team, too. You deserve it.”

Leroy winced and rubbed at his nose, nostrils flaring. “So you think I’ve made the right decision?”

“Why do you care what I think?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I trust your opinion.”

John groaned and ran a hand over his face. “You obviously knew what you wanted, Leroy, and it’s done now. You just said it yourself.”

“I know what will be best for me, but I don’t think that’s always what I wanted.”

“Listen, Leroy,” John scoffed, nearing the end of his tether, “if you have something to say to me just spit it out. No offence but I don’t particularly wanna talk to you, mate.”

He’d offended him with that. “Not even now you know this is the last fucking time we’ll see each other?”

“Have you forgotten what our last fucking conversation was about, eh?” John snapped. “A fucking lobotomy part of the package deal in your grand move to Bayern, is it?” 

Leroy huffed, kissed his teeth, and shuffled about in his seat. “I tried to call you to say sorry.”

“A brilliant, heartfelt apology, that, Leroy. A monumental effort. Cheers very fucking much mate.”

“Oh, come on, John,” Leroy whined, raising his voice. “I was as upset as you!” 

John threw his head back and laughed bitterly. From the corner of his eye he caught sight of Zinchenko throwing a suspicious look over his shoulder, eyes flickering between the only pair sat so faraway from the bench. It brought John to compose himself, but he was unable to resist shaking his head in disbelief, his entire body jittery and unsettled. 

Had this moment ever come, there wasn’t much John had planned to say. But it was happening, wasn’t it? There was one last thing that sat right in the pit of his stomach, something he needed to find out. It wasn’t something that he wanted to know because it might provide him hope; they were far past that point. It was more for the sake of his own dignity, his sanity.

“Why’d you even bother to tell me you’d read my therapy notes, Leroy?” he asked, searching to meet the other man’s eyes. “You could’ve just stayed quiet. If you knew you were going to Bayern you could’ve just kept your distance for a while, acted like none of it ever happened.” 

Leroy seemed to think for some time, avoiding John’s eyes as he stared at the ground. “I didn’t know lockdown was going to happen. I thought we’d be in training every week, together again like we were before I was injured. So I had to know.” 

“You could’ve asked someone. Could’ve asked Kyle.”

“And that’s not worse?” Leroy questioned, shooting a glare at John. “Snooping around behind your back rather than coming straight to you? We were friends, John. I fucked up when I did what I did, but we’ve always been honest to each other.”

John forced out a cutting laugh. “It’s nice that you think so Leroy, but the way I see it, there were two whole years that I was nothing but a liar to you.”

“I always had an idea that you liked me,” Leroy murmured.

This time it was John’s turn to avoid Leroy’s gaze. His worst suspicions had been confirmed, and it felt fucking awful. “Yeah,” he nodded, his throat tight. “I always thought you knew it, too.”

There was nothing said for a while after that. John turned back to face the pitch and focused on his breathing. In for five seconds through his nose, out for eight through his mouth. He’d wrapped his arms around his waist to cocoon himself but occasionally found himself gnawing at the nails on his right hand, the sleeves of his warm-up jacket stretched over the back of his palms to hide his fidgeting fingers. He wished Jack was here to rub circles over his back and call him soft. That’d do the trick.

“Where’ve you been during lockdown?”

John swung his head back around to glower at Leroy. Did he think they were suddenly mates now? Was that really Leroy’s apology? Were they going to have a chat like old friends and forget everything that had happened? None of it sat right with John.

“What the fuck you asking for?” 

“When we did training sessions, on the computer,” Leroy began, unfazed by John’s hostility, “and I see you on the video, the background of the house you were in is different. You’ve moved?”

Fuck. 

Or, on second thought, maybe it didn’t have to be such a panicked fuck moment. There was no use in lying. 

“Still got my place in Manchester, but I’ve been living with someone.”

Leroy pulled a face, his expression teetering somewhere between a pissed-off frown and an inquisitive smirk. “Who? Family, or…”

“A partner.”

Partner seemed most appropriate even if it pained John, considering he and Jack hadn’t set anything in stone. Besides, maybe the ambiguity worked to his advantage here. 

“A partner?” Leroy spluttered, face dropping. “What, like, like a… a woman, or a man?”

“A man.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s called Jack.”

“Jack,” he repeated, raising his chin in suspicion. “Do I know him?” 

Now that was a fuck moment right there. Not because John didn’t want to reveal Jack’s identity - no, he wanted to burst at the seams with pride at the fact he and Jack were so close. But their unspoken rule was that it had to stay a secret, that there was no-one they could trust. Deep-down John knew that Leroy would honour whatever he was asked, but it wouldn’t be fair on Jack. 

“You might know him,” John shrugged.

“I might?”

They were interrupted as a call came from down by the bench. “John! Leroy! The two of you, head out to warm up.”

They had to keep their distance on the sideline as they jogged up and down. John’s mind was racing, muscles burning with adrenaline from even being near Leroy. 

John was over him, completely - course he was. He was over the way he looked, over the few pounds he’d put on, making his torso wider and his thighs chunkier, over the springy curls on his head and the little fluff on his chin. Over the wide, pearly grin that seemed more and more rare these days. Over the judgemental scowl he’d always been unable to hide as he cast his light eyes over the scene in front of them, knowing he deserved to be out there. 

Yeah, course John was over him. 

Neither of them got on the pitch. They didn’t speak again, either. John found a seat at the back of the bus for the way home, shoved in his headphones, and rested his head against the back of his seat, focusing on his breathing.

A vibration from his pocket interrupted him.

Jack | 09:52pm  
How long u gonna be? Shall I wait up? 

John reckoned he wouldn’t be home until just past midnight. The coach would only drop them at the ground, and then he’d have to drive down to Birmingham. As much as he wanted to be greeted by Jack when he walked in the door, he couldn’t ask for that.

John | 09:55pm  
Won’t be back for a good few hours, don’t worry about staying up for me x

There was no reply sent back, but as John finally got back to Jack’s and reached forward to put the key in the lock, the door swung open for him.

Jack was leant against the inside of the door, rubbing his brown eyes dozily and smiling sweetly.

“I know you said not to, but I didn’t wanna go to bed without knowing you’d got home safely.” 

I love you, were the words on the tip of John’s tongue, but they got stuck behind his teeth, causing a lump to swell in his throat.

He said nothing. Instead he stepped inside and closed the door behind him, dropped his bag to the floor, and gently took Jack’s face in his hands. 

“Look like you’re about to cry, you soft lad,” Jack murmured, eyes crinkled at the edges as he held back a laugh. “You’ve only come back from Newcastle, not the bloody World War.”

“Missed you, though.”

Jack rose up on his tiptoes and kissed John softly, running his thumb over John’s jaw in a way that sent shivers down his spine. 

“Say that again.”

“I missed you.”

Jack’s lips broke into a wide smile, true bliss twinkling in his eyes. 

I love you, John wanted so desperately to say, but it just wouldn’t happen.

“I missed you,” he repeated.

“I know you did,” Jack whispered.


	15. liverpool at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the bulk of this the day after Leroy left (rip) tissues at the ready, it's an angsty one so don't say I didn't warn you x

“I think you should keep it long.”

John elbowed Jack’s side, pushing him out from under the covers and towards the edge of the bed. 

“Give over. I’m going to the barbers, pronto.”

Their morning alarm had gone off not long ago, waking the pair of them from their slumber. They were both set to suffer an early start for training but it had been sweetened by the fact that both of them were very much in the mood, instantly receptive to each other’s bodies and heavy breaths without so much as opening their eyes.

“I like it as it is now,” Jack mused, trailing the back of his palm along the side of John’s jaw and up to the crown of his head, where he settled his fingers into the lengths of the hair. “All curly, like a little schoolboy.”

“Can hardly fucking see you through this fringe.”

“That’s only ‘cause it’s sweaty.” 

John laid his head back against the pillow and exhaled a sigh of ecstasy as Jack massaged his scalp. It almost rivalled the head he’d received ten minutes earlier. 

He didn’t want to go to fucking work. He wanted to stay here, safe under the sheets, wrapped around Jack as if his life depended on it. The conversation he’d had with Leroy at Newcastle had put him on edge. It had been a cheap shot at reconciliation, and it hadn’t worked. 

A sigh came from the man beside him. “When d’you play Liverpool?” 

“Thursday.”

“Think you might start?”

“Start?” John retorted, refusing to open his eyes. “I’ll be lucky if I get sent out to warm-up.”

The motions Jack had been rubbing over John’s scalp slowed. “Is that just ‘cause you’ve been injured, or… or are they giving that Garcia a chance?” 

John inched an eye open and felt the familiar sensation of guilt creeping in.

“I don’t know. I think they want me gone, Jack.”

“Seriously?”

Jack’s genuine shock was almost offensive to John. Neither of them were thick, and it wasn’t as if the warning signs hadn’t been there all along. Injuries aside, there was no reason John should be on the bench, not at twenty-six, not after winning the trophies he’d won.

“I’ve got to make a choice, Jack, don’t I?” 

He wanted to talk about it with Jack, he really did, but the difference in quality between the two of them made him ashamed. No-one wanted a partner who was shit at their job, did they? Not that anyone knew they were together, which only served to make him feel worse. At least it would eventually save Jack the second-hand shame when John made his next mistake.

“Right now I’m fourth choice,” was as much as he could bring himself to explain. “Add whoever else they’ll no doubt buy in summer and I’m out of fucking luck.”

Jack sat up against the headboard and folded his arms over his chest. “What are you gonna do?” 

“I don’t know, Jack. I don’t know.” 

John tilted his chin back to allow his eyes to wander over Jack’s face. His freckles had come out in full force since he’d started playing again; they were maybe John’s favourite feature, placed perfectly over Jack’s strong nose and high cheekbones, beneath his light hazel eyes that were lined with long lashes.

How’d he managed to bag this one? He was punching, no doubt. He should’ve felt proud, but an overwhelming sense of uncertainty had crept into the back of his mind. This transfer business wasn’t helping one bit. 

“And you?” John dared to ask. “Any idea on next season?”

“I honestly don’t know, either. My Dad always used to say you’ll cross that bridge when you get to it. The season’s not over yet. Villa can still stay up.”

John didn’t want to press the issue, mostly because the more he asked Jack, the more he’d have to talk about his own situation. He couldn’t think of anything worse than self-reflection, especially in the company of someone he admired so much. 

But Jack must’ve known more about his future than he was letting on, surely? There had to be things he was keeping to himself, guarding away from John.

“Stop that,” Jack groaned, swatting his hand over John’s. 

“Stop what?”

“Biting your nails. You’ll have none left at this rate.”

-

It had been a morbid day in training for all the squad. 

Rumours of Leroy’s departure had been rumbling around, with the news all but confirmed by Pep himself as he spoke to the press. It sounded like negotiations were already in the final stages despite the transfer window only having opened the day before. 

John wondered if Pep had a similar secret deal lined up for him. Wouldn’t put it past the man, like. 

It seemed as if none of them had caught the chance to say a proper goodbye or farewell to Leroy. He hadn’t bothered to turn up to the training session, and as most of the lads showered the day’s sweat off, they began to speculate. 

“I’m sure I heard he’s on his way over to Germany now,” Phil had called out. “Private jet and that, you know what his bird is like.”

Mendy tutted and shook his head. “Ilkay told me he’s not gone yet.” 

“What does it matter?” Rodri shrugged. He’d never really gotten the chance to know Leroy; he had no idea of how important he’d been in his first couple of seasons, how his presence had always been felt in the changing room. “He’s gone, and he didn’t care to say goodbye.” 

No-one could argue with that, so everyone nodded to themselves and shut up.

John didn’t bother to hide the mopey look on his face as he dried off and dressed himself. He was avoided by most of the lads, except for Kyle, who couldn’t resist getting a word in.

“Maybe for the best, innit?” he told John, clapping a hand over the back of his neck. “Won’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“Get off me, Kyle. Fucking hate it when you rub my neck like that.”

“I know you do,” he mocked, leaving as quickly as he’d arrived.

A different voice came from over John’s shoulder. “John, mate?”

“What now?” John seethed, not even bothering to check who’d called for him. 

Raheem appeared, shaking his head with a smile. “Jeez, well, least we know who’s missing Leroy already.”

“Couldn’t care less,” he lied. “My ankle hurts, and Walks’ is being a prat.”

“The usual, then. Keep it to yourself, but Leroy’s over in the changing room at the stadium clearing his stuff out. He asked if I’d seen you.”

“Did he now?” John sneered. It’d take a miracle for him to go and chase after the lad - or a serious lapse in judgement. “Thanks for letting me know, anyway.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John nodded, doing his best to put a brave face on. “Just this ankle. Still not a hundred percent.”

Raheem frowned, far from convinced. 

“Honestly, Raz, I’d tell you if summat was up.”

Raheem took a step forward and dropped his tone. “What happened with Leroy that night at Sheffield? I mean, usually I would leave it and say it’s none of my business, but when it comes to seeing you like you are, I wanna know, John.”

Shit. It wasn’t surprising that Raheem had asked him something so serious in such a blunt manner, but John could never return the favour of such honesty.

“Not here, Raheem.”

“I thought we were mates, John.”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“You don’t talk to me about shit! Kyle said you don’t even talk to him anymore.”

“Let’s just say Leroy’s going soon, so it won’t matter for much longer,” John said, conscious that this couldn’t go any further. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? You locked yourself in the fucking toilet and cried. You wouldn’t even let Sergio in to talk to you, and that’s not like you.”

Vivid images he’d worked hard to suppress flashed behind his eyelids. Raheem couldn’t even begin to understand what he’d been through, what he’d worked so hard to forget. More than anything, he couldn’t allow Raheem to find out about Jack. 

“Stop ignoring me, John!”

“Will you just shut up, Raz?” John scoffed, holding his head. “I’m going to go see Leroy before he goes, alright?” 

Jesus, where the fuck had that come from? A serious lapse in judgement, it seemed. 

“I want you to call me when you get home,” Raheem demanded. “Maybe I could come to yours.”

“No,” John warned. His flat was as good as empty; all his clothes, everything he ever needed, was down at Jack’s. “I’ll call you, Raheem, I promise.”

Raheem looked far from pleased, but John was in no mood to deal with him. He’d really shot himself in the foot, hadn’t he? He supposed he felt so foul that coming face-to-face with Leroy couldn’t do him any more harm. 

He regretted that thought as soon as he made his way over to the Etihad. The corridors were mostly empty but anyone that passed by refused to challenge him on where he was going. Sheer adrenaline propelled him forward, all the way toward the doors of the first team changing room.

Deep down in his stomach a feeling had been brewing that told him Leroy wouldn’t even be there, that he would have disappeared without a care. 

They’d never speak again; maybe a greeting would be exchanged after an international game somewhere down the line, when John’s wounds had healed and Leroy had matured emotionally. John would congratulate Leroy on his expanding family and Leroy would express his respect for John for coming out while still playing, for keeping his head high and living how he wanted to.

Yeah, right. In your fucking dreams, Stonesy.

As John entered the changing room he found that the man was in fact there, his cupboard open, his expression lost despite the fact he’d been in there hundreds of times.

He blinked a few times, lips parting slowly. “John. You came.” 

“Alright, Leroy?” he murmured, wandering slowly to the centre of the room. “Raheem… he mentioned you were asking after me.”

“It’s just one thing, quick, before I go.”

A sickening feeling grew in his stomach. He wanted to say no, to simply mumble a quick goodbye and leave on the best terms possible, but he was rooted to the spot, trapped by Leroy’s presence.

“Go on, then.”

“Could you maybe… kiss me? Just once, before I leave?”

John froze in place, jaw agape. He just about managed to release a breathless, “Eh?”, before taking a step back, needing to put distance between them. 

“I just need to— want to know what it would’ve been like.”

Rage flooded his system. “You fucking having me on?”

“No.” Leroy was resolute, his expression stern. “I swear, John.”

“Then, no, Leroy,” he choked, more confused than anything. “No. Fucking hell, I can’t believe you’d even— just… no.”

“No?”

“Are you fucking deaf?! I said no, I have a boyfriend.” Well, that had never been confirmed, but in the heat of the moment and all that. “And you have a girlfriend.”

“It’s just a kiss, John. One. One, that’s all.”

Never in his life had John seen Leroy behave like this. Why was he being so fucking desperate? 

“Listen to yourself! If your missus went ‘round asking other men for kisses would that be alright with you?”

“Maybe she already has.”

So that was why.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Leroy,” John scoffed, not quite able to believe what he was hearing. “Has she cheated on you?”

“No, I didn’t—”

“Is this just your way of getting back at her?”

“No!” he shouted. “This is different, anyway. Completely different.”

“How the fuck is it any different?”

“Because we’re just friends!” 

Leroy may as well have punched John right in the stomach. 

“Just friends. Right,” John mocked. “And because we’re lads, I suppose, is it? Doesn’t really mean anything, because we’re just mates, and you’re not gay. No, you couldn’t like lads. You’re just curious, that’s all, isn’t it? Would never be worried that you might like me at all, would you?”

Fucking hell, had all that really just left his mouth? Leroy looked absolutely shellshocked, pupils black and blown.

“That’s not fair, John.”

“And how do you think I fucking feel, Leroy?” John yelled, years of hurt erupting from deep in his chest, spilling out against his burning throat. “Things were finally looking up for me! Jack has taught me so much about myself, and I felt normal for once, I felt fucking happy! And then you have to come along and complicate things all over again. You’ve just trivialised the entire past two years of my existence! Except I don’t think that’s really what you mean to do, trivialise it all. Water it down to a parting kiss between friends, just because you want to know how it feels, or because you’re taking pity on me.”

“I’m not taking pity—”

“No, I know you’re not taking pity on me. You’ve had a lot of fucking time to think about moving, and now you’re off to Bayern. But everyone here wanted you to stay, so you’re going through the motions, wondering if you’re doing the right thing. In the end it’s all done, Leroy, and no-one hates you for it, so stop worrying, mate. People move on, don’t they?” 

“I… I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Then just fucking say it, Leroy,” John seethed, gritting his teeth to stop himself from lashing out again. “All you have to say is good-bye. It’s two syllables. Shouldn’t be tough for a smart lad like you that speaks English well. Good-bye. Just like that.”

“I can’t leave if you hate me,” he pleaded, sobs suddenly breaking through his every word. Another moment passed and he became inconsolable, shoulders heaving as he struggled for breath. “I just can’t, John. You hate me.”

John stared blankly at the man in front of him, crying like a child. Had he gone too far? There was clearly only so much cutting sarcasm Leroy could take. He’d gone too fucking far, hadn’t he? He’d fucked it.

“Jesus, Leroy, I… I don’t hate you. I never, ever did,” John told him, fighting through the swelling pain in his chest. “But I’ve realised I never loved you, either. I loved you as a friend, yeah, but never in any other way. I’ve realised there’s a difference, and I’m at peace with that. I know you love your girlfriend, your daughter. And you thought a kiss would be an act of forgiveness, would make you feel better by making me feel better. But we can just say it, we can say… well all I can say is that I forgive you, Leroy. I just want you to forgive me too.”

Before John could register the movement Leroy had thrown himself against him, arms slung around John’s shoulders as if he was about to be snatched away. John laced his arms around Leroy’s waist and both of them hid their faces in the crook of the other’s neck. 

They cried and cried until John’s throat was raw and Leroy’s body was trembling, clinging onto one another like they were the last two people alive. 

Once Leroy had calmed down John sat him to the side and got him some water, dabbing tissues at his nose and eyes. It had been bound to happen like this, hadn’t it? No lowkey, cheery sending-off. No well-wishes or recounting of memories. Just tears and the notion of what could have been.

John sat beside Leroy, their bodies not as close as they would’ve been in the past, but still close enough to notice every movement that was made.

“What’s your boyfriend like?”

How John had longed to have this conversation, to sing Jack’s praises. To express his respect for the man through something other than his internal monologue. There was something to be said for the fact Leroy was the first to hear it, but John couldn’t bring himself to care.

“He’s incredible. Really smart, smarter than anyone thinks, even himself. He knows me well, gets me, gets that I’m mardy. And he’s fit.”

“Yeah? What does he do?”

“He plays football, actually. Thinks he’s David Beckham.”

“You— you said his name is Jack?” 

Penny had finally fucking dropped, had it? 

“Yeah, Leroy, it’s… it’s Jack Grealish.”

A grin spread across Leroy’s face, and he laughed through his leftover tears. “The one from Aston Villa? My rumoured replacement?”

“Well, wouldn’t quite call him your replacement. Can never replace you, mate, and besides… Jack brings different things.”

“I’m gonna miss you, John. I’ll miss you the most.”

John shook his head; he didn’t want to believe that, if only for his own sake. 

“Why’d you have to leave before we face Liverpool? Could’ve helped us beat them one last time, at least.” 

“You don’t need me.”

He wasn’t wrong.


	16. southampton away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely bit of smut followed by suffering, what else would you expect from this fic. Also purely as a heads up it's a long one so apologies, I feel like I overwrite every chapter ever but can't be helped! Pls let me know if you enjoy xxx

John got himself out on the training pitch earlier than usual, beating the rest of the lads to it. It was only the start of July and yet there was a noticeable chill in the morning air that lingered against his skin, encouraging him to warm-up harder, to push himself on a sprint.

It had never been bullshit when psychologists and doctors raved about the healing powers of exercise. Being out on the pitch was probably one of the few moments of the day when John wasn’t consumed by his own thoughts, fixated on whatever new internal panic had fallen upon him.

He’d been thinking a lot about Leroy. Well, thinking insinuated thoughts. The truth was that he’d been feeling about Leroy. Feeling hurt and betrayed at the sight of him signing that illustrious new four-hundred-grand-a-week-contract, putting on that red number ten shirt and posing for pictures like some sort of messiah had landed. 

What was it that Germany offered that Manchester couldn’t? Home, John supposed. As much as a shithole as it was, he couldn’t bear to part with England, especially not at the age of twenty like Leroy had with his home country. 

And in turn of thinking about Leroy, he’d been thinking about Jack. He always thought about Jack but this was different. This was a combination of guilt due to thinking about Leroy, thinking about a transfer, thinking about the future. Guilt about the things going unsaid between them. 

Then again, John was just overthinking. It probably hadn’t even crossed Jack’s mind.

“Johnny.”

John glanced over his shoulder to find placid, petite David with his dark floppy hair jogging into place beside him. Usually he’d scowl at anyone calling him Johnny, but there was a certain warmth to the nickname when it came from the likes of Kun and Silva. 

“Alright, David?”

“Did you speak to Leroy before he left?”

Ah, David. Always checking in with everyone, regulating the emotional balance of the squad. That’d be the one thing he’d miss most about the Spaniard as captain; his softness, his subtlety. There’d be none of that when Kev took over.

“I did,” John murmured, careful with how he spoke. “Why’d you ask?”

“I know you were close,” David shrugged, copying John’s choice of stretches. “It was very quick, so I was thinking, I hope Johnny gets the chance to have a talk with Leroy before he leaves.”

His ‘talk’ with Leroy had probably been one of most traumatic conversations he’d ever had. 

“Well, I just wished him well and that, we said our goodbyes. You make it sound so serious, David.” 

“We act like our relationships aren’t serious because people come and go, but they are,” David mused. John knew he didn’t mean to sound so philosophical - this was just how David was. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I leave soon.”

“Getting emotional?”

“It’s been ten years. But I can’t stay forever, that’s what I keep saying.”

Out of all the players John had ever played with, David was probably one of, if not the most, purest and honest he’d ever had the honour to know, blessed with a genuine heart of gold. He’d been with his girlfriend for years and their baby boy Matteo had been born premature a couple of seasons back. They’d struggled with it as anyone would, but David came back stronger and was the most valuable member of the squad in the wake of Vinny’s departure. 

The senior players had always been Kompany, Silva, Kun and Fernandinho. Each were deserving of a statue outside the ground. In two years time, with those four gone, the players that had been at City the longest would be Kevin, Raheem, Gundogan, and John himself. Statues for them lot? Kev, maybe. John didn’t even deserve a picture on the wall. 

He didn’t want David to go. He didn’t need to go, did he? But the man wanted to, and that was the difference.

“Can I ask you summat, David?” John found himself saying without really thinking about it. “Like, personal, but not about you, it’s to do with me.” 

“You can ask me anything.”

“Let’s say that I’m in a relationship.”

“You are?” he questioned, eyes wide.

“Well, let’s just say that I am for argument’s sake,” John mumbled. “And I’ve been in this relationship for… for four months now.”

“Si.”

“But me and this person, we’ve never… spoken about what we are, or like, actually defined it. Never met one another’s parents, and we’ve hardly told anyone.” John paused, exasperated by how negative he sounded. “What I’m saying is that I don’t actually know if I’m their partner - if they’d consider me as a partner. I don’t know if… I don’t know how much of a future there is to the relationship.”

“You would like a future?” 

“Yeah, I want there to be one, I really fucking do.”

“Can you not speak with words and ask this person?”

“Don’t wanna come on too strong.”

“But you’re together for four months?”

Good point. John sounded pathetic.

“I like him so much, David. I just don’t want to scare him away, and…”

Shit.

John cut himself off, his words sinking back into his throat as he realised what he’d done. 

Fuck-ing hell. It’d been bound to happen the moment John got too comfortable. The unexpected pronoun, the giveaway that his relationship was out of the ordinary.

“Que?” A pause of horrific silence passed between them before David’s lips curved into a tiny smile and he started chuckling softly to himself. “Don’t look like that, Johnny. I know you. Like I said, you can tell me anything, anytime.” 

“D’you not think… not think it’s a bit… I don’t know David, a bit weird?”

“I think you’re weird for being such a panic about it.”

John narrowed his eyes and stood tall, finding it strange that even someone as laidback as David seemed so blasé about this sudden, monumental revelation. 

“Could you… could you fucking tell I fancied Leroy?”

David smirked, clearly amused he’d finally got the chance to prove his perceptiveness. “He’s a handsome boy, no?”

“Give over, David. Jesus, could everyone fucking tell?”

“No, John. And no-one knows you are in a relationship, I promise,” he told him. “But you want people to know, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, not yet— well, maybe, I don’t know. I really don’t fucking know.” He didn’t know a lot at this moment in time, did he? At least there was one thing he knew for certain. “There’d be so much shit I’d go through.”

“Si, si. It comes down to if the relationship is worth it, no? That’s the only question.”

John didn’t even need to think about that - he agreed with David wholeheartedly. He’d just wanted it put into words by someone he could trust. 

His initial feeling was one hundred percent yes; no amount of abuse could get in the way of what he felt for Jack. But the worry that Jack didn’t feel the same way was overwhelming, scarier than the hate itself. 

He’d said I love you over the phone that once, but nothing of the sort had ever left his mouth again which had prevented John from offering a reply. They were stuck at that crossroads, refusing to advance. John had had enough of it.

Any train of thought he’d been building slipped away as the coaching staff arrived and started organising everyone into groups. All he found himself able to do was cling onto David’s shoulders, wishing he’d stick around forever.

-

Jack arrived home around eleven, exhausted and disappointed from the result of Villa’s early kick-off. John’s words of consolation seemed to be doing little to ease the pain of the defeat. 

“They’ve just been crowned champions and you held them off for the entire first half. That’s not bad going. We conceded three last time we were at Anfield.”

“We still lost, John.”

“I’m just saying,” he murmured, fighting a losing battle. “You played well. Always do. You should be proud of yourself.”

“Doesn’t matter unless we’ve got three points at the end of the ninety. And we don’t.”

John stared down at Jack blankly, not quite knowing what to do. He’d thrown himself onto the bed, propped himself up on one elbow so he was laying on his side, and had begun scrolling through his phone, disillusioned. 

What John was seeing now was a stark contrast to the man he’d just watched on TV, the image accompanied by the sound of pundits praising his determination and quality before speculating on whether or not he’d leave. Only the person in front of John knew the answer, a person John knew so well, yet he still couldn’t find the bottle to just open his mouth and ask.

It had never stopped being a bit bizarre to John that Jack could captain his side in the top-flight against Liverpool and come home to him, just the two of them together. He was in an unusually quiet mood now - admittedly, for obvious reasons - but John couldn’t be more appreciative. Jack trusted him enough to let him in on private moments, moments he could be comfortable in around John.

Was it wrong for John to feel lust stirring in his stomach? The timing wasn’t really right, but he couldn’t ignore the motion of Jack’s slender fingers against his phone screen, or the outline of his dick in his joggers. 

He’d never found anyone quite so attractive in his life, and the man was here, laid out in front of him, ready for the taking. What was he fucking about for, standing there like a lemon, letting the seconds pass?

“Put your phone down.”

Jack raised his gaze to meet John’s. “What?”

“I said, put your fucking phone down, and take off your clothes,” he ordered, pulling his own t-shirt up and over his head.

After contemplating the words that had been spoken Jack slowly did as he was told, allowing his phone to fall through his fingers as he took in the sight of John’s torso. A silent tension filled the air and John could feel himself growing hard already, aware Jack was anticipating his next move.

He took a step and knelt on the edge of the bed, inching closer to Jack. “Off,” he murmured, reaching forward to grasp the hem of his top. 

He’d never seen Jack look so enchanted, so enamoured. 

Jack let John slip the piece of fabric off, before asking breathlessly, “Fuck’s got into you?”

John hesitated for a moment. “Not a fan?” 

“No, I never said that,” Jack answered. He’d tilted his head back on his neck, parted his jaw, and was deliberately giving John the eyes. “The opposite, actually.”

“Well, like I told you the other week,” John said, possessively placing his outstretched palms on the top of Jack’s thighs, “watching you play does summat for me.”

Jack couldn’t hold back the smirk that ghosted over his lips. “Even when it’s watching us get shafted by Liverpool?”

“If anyone’s shafting you, it’s me, now.”

“New approach to dirty talk,” Jack teased, “but I think you make it work.”

John couldn’t stand it any longer and cradled Jack’s jaw before leaning in to meet his lips. He could tell Jack was in a needy mood from the way he was tugging on John’s hair and pressing his body up against his, which was all John required to want to do everything in his power to satisfy him. 

Their clothes came off quickly, thrown to the side along with the duvet. It was moments like this when John appreciated being that much taller than Jack, his body broader and stronger, allowing him to position the other man exactly as he wanted him. 

Right now that position was underneath him, laid out on his back with that beautifully smug smile which quickly turned to a sigh of pleasure as John’s hand wrapped around his length.

He teased him for a bit, gently running his thumb over the tip, caressing his balls, noticing the increasing shortness of Jack’s breath. Jack’s hands were in John’s hair even before he placed his lips around the end, pleading for more without words. So of course he did as Jack wanted him to, licking from the bottom of the shaft to the top, and then taking it all in his mouth, letting it hit the back of his throat. 

He’d had never considered himself a giver, but for Jack he’d do nothing less. It was the way Jack’s fingertips dug deep into the nape of his neck, the spot where he hated being touched by anyone but him, the grip tightening as he bobbed his head faster up and down his shaft. The low, guttural moans Jack struggled to keep in to conceal the true extent of just how well John was building him up, punctuated by the occasional muttered fuck in that thick, drawling accent. The piercing eye contact between the two, the flutter of Jack’s lashes as his eyes rolled back in his head, the dilation of John’s pupils as he cherished the unbelievable sight of this man completely at his mercy. 

John hadn’t needed the incoherent, rushed warning Jack gave seconds before he reached his climax - mostly because he could already sense it was building from the way the muscles in his thighs contracted and spasmed - but it was a welcoming sound, making John’s balls ache from the sheer lack of contact. 

He gratefully lapped up the juices and left Jack with no time to recover, encouraging him onto his front with his arse raised. John knew there was no chance he was lasting long, and so with a helping of lube he pushed his aching cock as deep into Jack as the muscles would allow, swiftly finding both of their sweet spots. Jack begged for it faster, harder, and John gave it to him rough, the sound of his trembling thighs against Jack’s so loud their eager moans were lost in the air. 

Ensuring Jack reached a second orgasm before John allowed himself to cum wasn’t a rare occurrence, but considering the foul mood he’d been in it seemed like a small mercy. Jack showed his appreciation by clinging onto John long after the act had stopped, head buried into the crook of his neck. 

It was so peaceful. They were in harmony, physically, mentally, knowing exactly how to push one another’s buttons and exactly how to soothe any ails. John would’ve stayed like that forever - if only Jack’s hip bone wasn’t digging deep into the skin of his stomach. 

“Jack, babe, your hip’s hurting me,” John was pained to declare. “Go get us a towel and then you can go to sleep.”

Naturally John’s suggestion was obeyed. Jack rolled his body off John’s, his legs still red and inflamed from being grasped and held so hard, and lumbered into the en-suite. 

John pulled the duvet off the floor and settled it over the bed as Jack strolled back in to the room, towel in hand. There was a permanent smile on his face, which, paired with the sight of his lean, naked body and uncharacteristically messy hair, rendered John absolutely smitten. 

To say he was a sight for sore eyes would be a fucking understatement, and John made that known, looking him up and down with a smirk until he couldn’t take the undivided attention any longer. He turned the light off and got into bed beside John, then proceeded to press thankful kisses along his collarbone and jaw before their bodies settled against each other for the night. 

It didn’t take long for Jack’s eyes to flutter shut and for his breathing to slow. 

“That was the best blowjob I’ve ever had,” he said against John’s chest.

“That’s low, that,” John groaned, unable to believe any truth in what he was hearing. “Lying to me.”

Jack scoffed and snaked his arms around John’s waist, eyes still shut as he shook his head. “Cheek of you. Who’d you think I am? Like fuck am I lying.”

“Every lad says that to every girl they’ve ever got a blowie from.”

“Mhm,” Jack hummed. “Funny that, though, ‘cause you’re not a girl.”

John stared into the dark. If there was ever a time to ask, it was now.

“What am I, then? To you?”

The room fell quiet. John felt his heart in his throat, panic surging over the reason for Jack’s stillness. But he stirred a few moments later, squeezing his strong arms tighter around John’s waist. 

“What’d you say, babe?” he mumbled cluelessly.

“Nothing,” he lied, wishing Jack would open his eyes once more just to scold him for the way he’d begun biting at his nails. “Just saying goodnight.”

“Night, John.” 

-

John nodded at the image that had been presented to him by Bernardo. A tiny, petite blonde woman with tan skin and bright blue eyes who looked more like a sixteen year-old school girl than an apparent Instagram model was revealed to be the Portuguese player’s new girlfriend. Put it this way; she wasn’t John’s type.

“Well congrats Bernardo mate,” John said, more focused on the food in front of him than the topic of conversation. “She’s a blinder.”

“A blinder is good?”

John scoffed, almost choking on the mouthful of food he’d just stuffed into his gob. “Yeah, course it is.”

He’d just wanted to eat his post-training dinner in peace. It was three to a table - apparently coronavirus wouldn’t attack when they had they hands all over each other on the pitch, but it would as soon as they tucked into their fillets of salmon - and to John’s dismay the table with David and Rodri on had been filled by Ilkay before he’d had the chance to get over there. 

It meant he was stuck with Bernardo and Zinchenko. The only thing worse than Bernardo and Zinchenko was Bernardo, Zinchenko, and Mendy. Knowing his luck the Frenchman would probably disregard all rules and pull up a chair sometime soon. For the time being John averted his eyes to the large flatscreen on the opposite wall which was displaying a Sky Sports transfer special. 

“Bernardo, bro, your girl is okay, but she’s not quite my fiancee,” Oleks bragged. 

“Are you kidding?” Bernardo exclaimed. “Okay then. John will decide.”

“I’ll decide what?” he grunted, wondering if he’d ever actually be able to finish his plate.

“You decide who is better looking. My girlfriend, or Oleks’.”

“Will I bollocks.” 

It was Zinchenko’s. She was a poundshop Margot Robbie, but that was a Margot Robbie lookalike all the same. Thankfully Bernardo didn’t seem to mind John’s refusal to pick between the two women, and instead turned the conversation south. 

“So,” he said, nudging John’s elbow suggestively, “who is John Stones’ lady?”

“What lady?”

“Who are you sleeping with?”

“Who am I sleeping with?”

“Yes,” Bernardo quipped. “Come on, let’s see.”

It wasn’t so hard for John to brush this sort of chat off, mostly because the lads were so deluded when it came to relationships and women that anything was believable. Anything but the notion that John wasn’t seeing anyone, apparently. 

“I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

“You are a bad liar, my friend.”

“Honestly, Bernardo, I’m not lying. I was single before. How was I meant to see anyone?” If he was Pinocchio his nose would be the length of the Etihad pitch. “It’s been lockdown, hasn’t it?”

Oleks began to chuckle to himself. “So you’re saying you haven’t had a fuck for five months?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, yeah.” Lie. Him and Jack had only just shagged that morning, and it had been fucking brilliant.

“Not even once? Over five months, John?”

Heat prickled the back of his neck. Was this a fucking interrogation? “Not even once, Bernardo. My wrist is sore from all the wanking I’ve had to do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Your choice, mate.”

An awkward hush fell over the table. John’s mind was one step away from panic mode, suddenly very concerned he’d been way too hostile in his response for either of them not to suspect something else was going on. But it seemed he was saved from any further silence as someone in the room turned the volume up on the TV, causing heads to raise as attention fell to the images on the screen.

“Let’s talk about Aston Villa captain, Jack Grealish - Manchester City or Manchester United? If both are after you, who do you pick, and where would be best for him to go? Can he reach that top level required to play at these top clubs?”

The food in John’s mouth quickly turned to the consistency of sandpaper. 

“Well, I know you’ve just asked about Manchester City, or the likelier spot, United - but I think Chelsea could be a good fit for him. We know United are pursuing him, and I think City will end up looking elsewhere for a Sane replacement, but Chelsea seem to suit his style of play a bit more.”

John’s heart plummeted in his chest. It was happening, wasn’t it? Jack was being ripped from him. Even worse, it was being done so publicly, and at the same time no-one had any idea of John’s involvement - or lack thereof - whatsoever. 

Zinchenko gestured to the images of Jack on the TV. “Do you think he will come here?” 

“Pep likes him,” Bernardo shrugged.

“I don’t.”

John glared daggers at Zinchenko. Where the fuck had that come from? Who wouldn’t like Jack? He didn’t even fucking know him. 

Bernardo sipped his drink wryly. “Sane replacement, meu cu.”

“What’s that mean?” John snapped.

“Meu cu?” he chuckled, tone falling flat once he registered the anger on John’s face. “Meu cu means… it means my ass.”

The little elfish twat. Did John really dare say anything else? The bottom line was that he would want Jack to stick up for him had he been in this situation, if they were in each other’s shoes. 

“Well I think he’s good. Why shouldn’t we want him?” he questioned, knowing he was too rattled to be going on like this. “He’s a good passer, reads the game well, good attitude, great captain.” 

“Is he good at sucking dick, too?”

John almost threw up the meal he’d just eaten out of sheer panic. His hands gripped the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling out his chair, nails digging into the wooden tabletop. 

“Fuck does that mean?” 

“Just wondering if he had to suck your dick to get you to say that,” Bernardo sniggered. 

Jesus fucking Christ. He thought he’d been found out; his whole life had flashed before his eyes. A sudden sharpness was growing behind his temples. It took all of his strength not to launch himself over the table and smack the childish smirk right off Bernardo’s face. 

“You know it’s just a joke, buddy.”

“Well it’s not very fucking funny.” 

“You hate me today, don’t you?” Bernardo chuckled. “You’re in one of your grumpy moods.”

“Too right I am. Wish someone’d turn that fucking telly down,” he complained, sick for the first time ever of the sight of Jack prancing around in his tiny shorts. “Got a bangin’ headache.” 

“Now we’ve just added the poll to our Sky Sports news app - the question, Jack Grealish to Manchester United or Manchester City? Head over there to cast your vote now.”

Zinchenko leant back in his chair and cupped his hands around his mouth, before shouting, “Quick, everyone download the app so we can vote for him to go to United!” 

The low blow earned a few weak laughs from the lads on the surrounding tables. John knew it was entirely unprovoked and there was next to no chance it could’ve been personal, but he had no way of restraining himself. He was seething, head spinning, and he couldn’t let it go.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” 

“Hey, hey,” Oleks cajoled, trying to cool him down, “it was a joke, Johnny!”

Someone appeared next to John. It was Phil, all gangly as he crouched down beside him with his shit trim, pathetically wanting in on the confrontation. 

“I think John’s just jealous,” the young lad taunted, nudging John’s shoulder with his. 

Where the fuck was this going? He was going to be sick. Did he even dare ask what Phil meant? Bernardo did it for him anyway.

“John, jealous? Why?” 

“A little birdie told me that Grealish is shagging Laura Woods. Now, I’ve definitely seen Woodsy flirting with you once or twice, John. Pipped you to it, has he?”

Laura fucking Woods? That posh blonde journo who provided a bit of eye candy on Sky Sports from time to time?

It was all getting a bit much for John. The overload of information he was hearing paired with the monumental secret he was struggling to hide caused a surge of dread to crash right through him. 

“Grealish isn’t shagging Laura Woods,” he mumbled, painfully aware of the tightness taking over his chest.

Phil gawped, thinking he’d hit the jackpot. “Is that ‘cause you’re shagging her?” 

“Am I fuck,” John spat. “Where’ve you even heard that from? About Jack, and her?”

“Tammy said they were texting. Grealish showed him pics she’d been sending to him. You know, pictures that should’ve been kept private.”

Everything came crashing down around him. John wasn’t irrational. He knew better than to believe everything he heard. But right now he couldn’t even think straight - this had gone way too far.

“Johnny?” Bernardo murmured, waving his hand in front of his face. “Hellooo? Is anyone home?”

“Hey, you alright, John? You don’t look too good, mate. Your cheeks have gone a bit rosy. Here, have a drink.”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed, knocking the glass of water Phil was holding out for him all over the table. “I’m alright.”

The only thing he could focus on was the horribly familiar sensation of his throat closing in on itself and the shrill ringing sound in his ears. How’d he let this happen again?

Without so much as a warning he tore up and out of his seat, making a beeline towards the toilets. His name was being called behind him but the shouts were rapidly drowned out as the throbbing in his temples took over. He barrelled himself into a cubicle and tumbled onto the floor, eyes flooded with hot tears.


	17. newcastle at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please don't hate me lol x

As much as a pain as the virus was, it had provided John with the perfect excuse to cut himself off from the rest of the world and hide away as he tried to make sense of his relapse.

He’d forgotten how dreadful it was. It had been his first anxiety attack in five months, and he was struggling to make sense of how he’d fallen so far again. Every hour that passed brought on random bursts of tears that erupted from within and paralysed him, making his lungs weak and his chest unbearably tight. 

The medication he’d been given earlier in the year had been chucked when he’d started living at Jack’s and there seemed to be no alternatives. His breathing exercises were about the equivalent of a chocolate teapot, and almost overdosing on paracetamol in the hopes it might curb some of the pain was the most pointless idea he’d had in some time.

A few of the lads at work had noticed his distressed state immediately after he’d dragged himself out of the loos. He’d covered it up under the guise of borderline-rude sarcasm before bundling himself into his car and ignoring all speed limits in order to get back to his empty flat. It was cold and dusty and felt no better than a hotel room, but there was not a chance in hell that Jack could find out.

When he wasn’t crying so hard he couldn’t breathe, John had been plagued by his attempts to rationalise the story that had set him off in the first place. So far he’d managed to boil it down to the bottom line.

Tammy Abraham had told Phil Foden that Jack Grealish was texting, and potentially sleeping with, Laura Woods.

His heart told him it couldn’t be true. There must’ve been a misunderstanding, a mix-up. The two of them had something deeper than they’d both ever experienced before; John still felt butterflies every time he laid eyes on Jack, still felt his heart race any time he came near.

His head, however, was laughing away in pity.

He couldn’t see Jack in the state he was in without making an absolute fool of himself. John wasn’t sure if he’d ever lied to Jack before, but all he knew was that it felt rotten even despite the things that Foden had said.

“No, I don’t feel too good. Got a temperature, a fever sort of thing. I better stay at mine for a couple of days while I get tested again, Jack. Don’t wanna be passing anything onto you, not now.”

The news hadn’t been taken well. John knew Jack could hear the hurt in his voice no matter how much he tried to mask it. All he could do was rest on the hope that Jack assumed the source of his sadness was coronavirus being another item at the bottom of a long list that had kept John from getting out on the pitch. 

“Make sure you let me know as soon as you get the results. Should only be a couple of days at most, shouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” John insisted, feeling sick to his stomach. “Yeah, ‘course I’ll let you know.”

Once they exchanged some unusually stoic goodbyes John promptly hung up and realised he was in desperate need of a plan. It’d take a few days away from Jack to cover up the signs of his relapse, to calm himself and his body down, for which coronavirus provided a believable enough excuse. 

Work on the other hand would be a tricky one. If he missed any more training sessions he’d really struggle to get his foot back in the door, especially with the transfer window open. There were double sessions scheduled over the next few days before a match next week, and his presence was expected. He’d get tested at work as they always did and his results were likely to come through as negative. 

He had no other option - he couldn’t miss training. It wasn’t as if Jack would find out, would he?

The morning after he’d called Jack and told him the bad news he turned up to training as usual, determined to keep a low profile. He made sure he passed by the club photographer on his way out to the pitch, shielding his face from the camera.

“Don’t put any pictures of me anywhere, alright?” he called out.

“Bad hair day, Johnny?”

She wasn’t wrong. The trim was far past its best. “Summat like that.”

It wasn’t long before Pep was doing the rounds, hands stroking at his greying stubble. John wasn’t sure if he was being watched or if it was just his overactive imagination. 

He thought he’d better start trusting his instincts a bit more once they were instructed to do individual exercises and Pep headed right in his direction.

“John, John. Stop, and listen to me now,” his manager demanded, arms raised. 

Shit.

“Alright, Pep?”

Pep stood unbearably close to John and blinked at him with his big, bulging eyes.

“There is a month from now until the end of the season,” he declared. “We have the Champion’s League, and we have to win. You will be so, so important to us, so I want your complete focus. You have no distractions, no?”

How easy of him to assume so. “Er, no.”

“No distractions, no girlfriend, no Leroy, no injury.”

John almost choked on thin air. “Say that again?”

“No distractions now John,” he repeated with a wag of his finger, giving nothing away. “Nothing but focus on football.”

How the fuck had he known about Leroy? He’d told David the other day, but he’d never dare spill a secret like that, not even to Pep. No, he’d probably figured it out for himself. Underneath the frantic exterior there was a method to the madness, a perfectionist that let nothing fly under the radar.

“You understand, John?”

“Yeah.”

“One month. You have one month, until the end of the season, to prove you belong.”

Fucking hell. This was it.

“I know you can show me, I know you can do it. I want you to believe it. Prove it to me, to everyone. John Stones is good enough. He’s better than good enough. You prove it, and you stay. Okay?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, suddenly instilled with a sense of confidence that could only be bestowed by someone like Pep. He wanted to stay at City dearly, and the confirmation that it was possible was like a weight off his shoulders. “Got you.”

“Good,” Pep smiled, wrapping an arm around John’s shoulders. “You will start against Newcastle on Wednesday.”

A league game. There was nothing left to play for, but it’d do nicely. “Thanks, Pep.”

“Thank me when you prove me right.” 

Hearing that the manager had faith in him was a necessary lift he’d been longing for, but the effects wore off soon enough. Every passing hour brought another call or text from Jack, anxiously asking after the results of the test. 

“Listen, I’ll call you the second I get them, alright? You’ll be the first to know.”

The other end of the line was quiet for a few moments. “How are you?” he eventually asked.

John knew what he was getting at, but he stuck with the lie. “Temperature still. Sore throat. I don’t feel ill at all, but I’ve noticed it.”

Jack held a silence again. 

“I really hope I don’t have it.”

“No John, I mean, how are you, like, in yourself?”

“How’d you mean?”

“You just sound down, is all.”

Tears pinched at the corner of John’s eyes. If this had been any other time - if he hadn’t heard what Foden had said, if he hadn’t seen articles plastered all over the news about every club in the Premier League fighting over Jack, if he didn’t need to fight tooth and nail to stay at his own club - he’d have come clean. He’d have let Jack in and taken the fallout. He simply wasn’t strong enough right now.

“Just really hoping I don’t have it,” he said. “Don’t wanna be stuck inside on my own for two weeks.”

“‘Course not,” Jack agreed. “That’d be shit.”

John could hear it in Jack’s tone, the way he’d been hoping for something else, the way he was secretly disappointed. It made two of them. John had never been so disappointed in himself. 

-

The day before City were set to play Newcastle was the day John knew he had to face Jack. He reeled off some bullshit explanation that his test sample had been lost and so he’d had to do another. Eventually he said it had come back negative, so he’d be home that evening. Jack had nothing else to say other than that he was glad John could come back to him.

They’d been apart for five days, the longest length of time since lockdown had started. Jack’s absence had been weighing on John, but Foden’s tale even more so. What if Laura Woods had been round to Jack’s while John was away? What if he’d fucked her in their bed, the bed that John had shared with him for the past five months? 

The very thought made his skin crawl. Even worse, he had no fucking idea of what he should do about it.

It was early evening when John arrived at Jack’s. He let himself in, and with his heart pounding in his chest, he walked through into the kitchen where he could hear noise. 

Jack was loading the dishwasher, still clothed in his training gear. He sensed John’s presence before he could make himself known, and so stopped what he was doing, leant against the counter, and broadened his chest out as he took in the sight of his visitor.

Even knowing what he knew, John couldn’t resist exchanging a smile. It was like all his troubles faded away; he was wrapped around Jack’s little finger mortifyingly tight. 

“I’ve just had tea,” Jack said, a flash of regret passing his expression. “Didn’t know when you’d be home. I can make you something.”

“No. I’ve eaten,” John lied, stomach turning. Should he hug him? Kiss him? Had this been a week ago Jack’d already be bent over the kitchen countertop. 

“You’re definitely not contagious, then?” Jack asked, trying to force a joke. It was fair for him to have genuine concerns. Any time out now meant Villa were going down. “Won’t give me anything, will you?”

“Test says I’m negative.”

“Well then what are you doing? Get your lanky arse over here.”

The mixture of emotions John experienced as he embraced Jack and met his lips made him lightheaded. He’d never felt this way about another human being before. It excited him and terrified him in equal parts.

So as they settled down for the evening on the sofa his mind was consumed with fearful thoughts that Jack didn’t feel the same way, that he knew he was wasting his time with John. Whether he was shagging Laura Woods or not meant little in the grand scheme of things. Alright, so maybe it did, but John would’ve held doubts over how much he deserved to be with Jack despite it. 

They’d stuck the Chelsea-Palace game on the telly and Jack had proceeded to natter away about Mings and how he’d been pranked by the kitman in training. John felt as if he’d been submerged in water, pulse racing in his ears, and without realising he was soon biting away at his nails, trying with all his might to stay as grounded as possible.

“John?”

He turned his head to find Jack staring at him, wistful eyes narrowed in suspicion of the faraway state he’d been in.

“Yeah?”

“You’ve not been listening to a single word I’ve said, have you?”

“I have.”

“What was I saying, then?”

“You were going on about… about training. About something to do with Tyrone. That’s why I zoned out.”

“Bit rude.”

John simply shrugged. That was a bit rude too, but he supposed it was in keeping with the topic of conversation.

But it wasn’t as simple as continuing the conversation. There was a storm brewing between them. Something had gotten under Jack’s skin and something had quite clearly taken ahold of John. The tension couldn’t be ignored, and as they sat beside one another on the sofa, bodies close, but not quite touching, it was only a matter of time before things slipped from either of their control.

“I had an interesting chat this morning,” Jack began. “Was talking to Phil.”

“Phil?”

“Foden. One with the dodgy trim. I’m sure you know him.”

Jesus. How’d that little shit have his nose in everyone’s business?

“Yeah, course I know him.” If John had any reason to be concerned, he knew it was time to start now. “Care to tell me why you were talking to Phil?”

“We’re mates,” Jack said, nonchalant as ever in the face of John’s disparaging tone. “Met him on nights out a couple of times when we was with Tammy.”

“Right.”

“Why’d you lie to me, John?”

It was as easy as that for Jack. Six words, just a simple sentence. A stone-cold stare shot in John’s direction. He had no chance.

“Lie to you?” he questioned. He didn’t know why he was bothering. Wouldn’t take a genius to realise his entire act was about to fall through. “What you on about?”

“You said you thought you had coronavirus. Said you had to self-isolate, and your test results got delayed, so you stayed at your flat.”

“That’s what happened, yeah.”

“But the day after you called me and reeled off all that shit to me, Phil said you were in training. You actually turned up to training, not a word said about coronavirus, and acted as if everything was normal. And you turned up the day after that, too. Right as rain, Phil said.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Foden was dead. D-E-A-D. John’d snap his twiggy little neck under his size nine boots the next time he caught so much as a glimpse of him. Why had Jack even been talking to Foden about him? Unless they’d been enthusing over Jack’s second secret love life, about Laura Woods, and about how John was being made into an absolute mug.

“So have you got an excuse John, or are you just gonna sit there biting your fucking nails, looking all sorry for yourself?”

He felt bile rise in the back of his throat as he dropped his hand to his lap. Jack wasn’t the victim here.

“Phil say anything else about me?”

“Like what?”

He’d shot himself in the foot - there was no admitting he’d had his first anxiety attack in months. Not only was he too ashamed, but in his mind it’d be no better than a form of guilt-tripping. He had to take a different approach, had to give up the upper hand.

“You really wanna know why I lied, Jack?”

Jack winced to himself. “So you… you did lie?”

“I did, yeah. And the reason why I lied and stayed at mine for a few days was because Phil told me something about you, actually.”

“I’m all ears.”

There was a feeling in John’s stomach that had started out as nothing more than a niggle a few weeks ago, almost like a small seed planted in the very depths of his tummy. But the events of the past weeks had watered that seed, nurturing it, encouraging it to grow. Now it was in full bloom, and John had failed to clip the leaves before it had got too late.

“Are you seeing someone? Someone else?”

A sudden laugh rang through the air, the sound both appalled and enraged, until the real severity of the accusation hit Jack. He froze, face falling faster than it ever had.

“Are you for real right now?”

John felt the words run right through him. Everything told him not to, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins pushed him to fight back, to stand up for himself.

“If you trust what Foden told you about me, why shouldn’t I trust what he’s said about you?”

“If you think I’m sleeping with anyone but you, you don’t even know me, John. You don’t know the first fucking thing about me. I’m not like that.”

He wanted to believe Jack more than anything, he truly did, but something just wasn’t sitting right with him.

“You don’t even wanna know who it is that you’re supposedly sleeping with?”

“You’re a fucking twat,” Jack sneered, shaking his head. “Na, there’s summat wrong with you.”

The need to put distance between them drove John to his feet. Anger was prevailing, conquering the betrayal that had been consuming him for days.

“I don’t know how I didn’t fucking see it coming, really,” he declared, unable to produce his usually bitter humour. “Maybe I was convenient for lockdown, while you were bored, but I can become a handful quite quickly, I know that.”

Jack gave John the dirtiest look he’d ever seen. “What the fuck are you on about?”

“It’s not difficult to know what I’m getting at Jack.”

“Well what the fuck are you getting at?” he responded, raising his voice. “Because you’ve just said I’m shagging someone else!”

“Are you gonna tell me otherwise?”

“I shouldn’t even have to fucking answer that. It shouldn’t even be leaving your fucking mouth.”

John stood and stared at Jack, desperate to just come clean. To lay it all out and expose himself for the weak, frail shell he’d become. The restart, being injured, Leroy, being closeted, Pep, his anxiety, David, losing his spot, Foden, Laura fucking Woods - it had all boiled down to this, to Jack, to John’s inability to be honest with himself, and with everybody else.

“I feel like I don’t know who you are at the minute, John,” Jack sighed, echoing John’s exact thoughts. “If something’s going on you can talk to me, you know that? I’m here for you, you only. But something’s… changed with you, and I don’t know if it’s this bullshit from Foden, or something else. You just feel so far from me.”

It felt as a crack had split down the centre of John’s heart.

“What the fuck happened to ‘I love you’?”

Jack looked as if he’d been hit over the head.

“What?”

“You said it, not me. You said it Jack, you told me, ‘I love you’.”

“John… don’t take this the wrong way, babe, but I… I don’t remember saying that.”

“Don’t take it the wrong way?!” John snapped. “That’s what you’re fucking going with?”

Jack dug his fingers into the lengths of his hair, helpless. “I don’t remember!”

“On the phone, the first day back in training, the day I got injured, you said you were coming to pick me up, and you told me you loved me. You said ‘I love you’ and then you hung up. You hung up before I could reply. And I swear on my life you did, Jack, because I wouldn’t make that up. And I’ve thought about it every day since.”

The shock on Jack’s face was so severe that even John knew it couldn’t be faked. He’d never seen Jack look so lost, so unsure of himself.

“I… I honestly… it must’ve been, like, a passing thing. Must’ve been in passing,” he choked out, trying his hardest to string a sentence together. “Like, a subconscious thing, you know, one of them things you say… you say when— without realising. You don’t realise because it’s just normal, it’s just something everybody says now.”

“It’s just normal? It’s just something you say without realising?” John repeated, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just something everybody says?”

Jack grew panicked, realising how he’d sounded. “No, no, that’s not what I meant!”

“God, you really are fucking desperate to come up with an excuse as to why you didn’t mean it, aren’t you?”

“Don’t you dare make it out to be like that!” Jack cried. “If you’re so fuckin’ bothered, why’d you never say it back, eh? I’ve never heard you say it! You didn’t say it then and you haven’t said it since.”

“Believe you me, I wanted to say it. There were so many times I wanted to say it. Every night and every morning. Every time I came home, every time I walked in the same fucking room as you, every time you called.”

John knew he had no right to tell Jack how he was supposed to feel, but he couldn’t help himself.

“I just think, Jack… I think maybe… maybe I just knew all along you didn’t really feel the same.”

It was rare that Jack had ever been at a loss for words. But now was one of those times, and it was clear he was struggling to make sense of it all.

“I need some time to think about this, John. I think I need to— need to work out where my head’s at.”

“Yeah, ‘course.”

Jack gazed up at John longingly, given hope in the way he’d seemed to back down. But he’d got it wrong. So, so wrong.

“I’ll just get my stuff and go, then.”

“Go?” Jack scoffed. “Go? Go where?”

John held his tongue and looked at Jack for what he imagined would be the last time, for a long time. The love he felt for him was painful. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Exactly what he’d been digging for. But now he’d got it he didn’t want it; of course he fucking didn’t. He’d never wanted anything less. But you make your fucking bed and you fucking lie in it, don’t you? You dig your hole too deep and you don’t get back out.

“Go?” Jack repeated strongly, getting to his feet. “Fucking go where?!”

It was all getting too much for John, who found himself having to turn away, feeling the onset of panic flood his body.

“That’s it, turn your fucking back on me. You’re a fucking coward!”

John needed to be alone, and he needed to be alone now. Just him and the bathroom floor. That’s all he needed.

“Yeah, off you fucking run then. Always have to be fucking right, don’t you! You’re a fucking wanker sometimes John, you know that? A right fucking bellend! Always have to get your own way even when you know it’s wrong!”

Jack’s voice began to fade behind him as he tore down the hallway towards the bathroom, but the insults were still ringing off the walls, just loud enough to reach him.

“You think you’re such a smart cunt! Well I won’t fucking stand for it! I’m going before you can!”

John stopped in his tracks. 

Jack’s tirade ended abruptly and was soon followed by an almighty slam of the front door. Seconds later a roar bellowed from the engine of his car. 

The sudden silence of the house was chilling. Clinging to the bathroom door, John listened as Jack drove away into the distance, leaving him wondering how it had come to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote and rewrote this god knows how many times and it pained me to leave out some typically-Stonesy-sarcastic-remarks that I came up with first time round but I think this was as good as I could ever get it, hope you feel the same x
> 
> ALSO how AMAZING is Jack doing irl! V v proud (we HATE gareth southgate and his grealish hate agenda here) although can't be saying the same for John who I'd hoped would have picked himself up a little bit by now - if only for the sake of this story lol - so we'll see what happens in the next couple of months. All I ask for is a call-up in November (not gonna happen) but we'll manifest it anyway. Thank god I write this fic so I can fantasise otherwise x


	18. brighton away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's John and Kyle in a hotel room, it's unnecessarily long, you know this by now

“Hiya, mate. Wondering if I could get some milk for a brew? Just to take back up to the room. Green top, if you’ve got any.”

“I’m sure we do,” the young lad replied. “I’ll go fetch you some now. Anything else?”

John said no and forced a half-arsed smile as the receptionist headed off, forgetting there’d been no point even bothering due to the mask covering the lower-half of his face. 

He’d been hoping for a lie-in but his brain had given him no choice. For the past week he’d struggled to get a good night’s sleep, tossing and turning through the early hours as he bit his nails down to stumps and stared into the dark. 

It was even worse when he was made to share a room with Kyle, who snored excessively. Last night the twat had told John to head down to the hotel bar and knock back a few shots of whisky to put him to sleep, before he’d rolled over and added, “and I know you’ll wake up first, so you can go down and get some milk for our tea in the morning.”

“Do we not have a fridge?” John had groaned.

“I’ve used up all the milk they gave us already. And make sure it’s semi-skimmed, won’t you? The others don’t sit right on my stomach.”

John wouldn’t have bothered if he wasn’t absolutely gagging for a brew himself.

They were down in Brighton for another league game. The atmosphere in the hotel was eerie; the masks on everyone’s faces never growing any less alien to John. On the bright side he supposed it was doing him a favour, hiding the morbid expression he couldn’t seem to shake.

A few minutes passed and there was no sign of the receptionist. John wanted to crawl back into bed and bundle himself up in his sheets but he knew it’d do him no good, especially with a game later, so he took a seat on the arm of a chair in reception and decided to stick it out.

His eyes cast over a pile of the morning’s papers on a nearby coffee table. It was all the same, mostly that crap about Johnny Depp and Amber Heard suing the Sun. John hoped the rag would get sent under for it all. How much was the Sun nowadays, anyway? Surely no-one was still buying such a sorry excuse for journalism.

Curiosity got the better of him and he leant forward to leaf through the papers. At the bottom of the pile lay the Sun, untouched but as cheap and dirty-looking as ever.

His heart dropped in his fucking chest as he took in the sight of the front page. 

In huge black letters it read, ‘GAY PREM STAR: I’m afraid to come out.’ 

With trembling hands he drew the paper closer to his eyes, expecting the headline to change the next time he blinked. It was his exhaustion, surely, playing mind games with him, stoking his paranoia.

But the headline remained, and the article inside was even worse, taking up two double-page spreads. 

Fuck the milk. Fuck it. Kyle wouldn’t be happy, but it was a price John was willing to pay. 

Frantically he rolled up the paper and tucked it beneath the waistband of his joggers, covering the bulk of it with his t-shirt. His legs bolted him up the stairwell, breathless as he arrived on his floor. He made his way straight to the room, and after a panic with the keycard not working, he finally shoved his way in, door slamming shut behind him.

Kyle was laying on his front, the bedsheets barely covering his legs as he snored away to himself. John was past caring; he launched himself towards Kyle, desperate to share the burden.

“Walks!” he hissed, grabbing Kyle’s shoulders. “Ky. Kyle! Wake up!”

“Are you fucking mental?” Kyle mumbled, still half-asleep as he tried and failed to shoo John away. “Get the fuck off me.”

“No, Kyle, mate, please,” John begged. “Mate, this is serious, and I’m… I think… think I’m gonna… might have an anxiety attack, Kyle.”

He hadn’t just been saying that to get a reaction, but it did the trick. Kyle shot up, eyes wide and glassy. John was struggling with his breathing, rocking back and forth as he perched at the foot of Kyle’s bed.

“Fuck’s sake, John!” he exclaimed, tentatively wrapping his arms around John’s shoulders. “Come on bud, come on. What the hell’s brought this on, then, eh?”

“Paper.”

“You what?”

“The paper,” John repeated, nodding towards the rumpled copy of the Sun that had fallen on the floor. “Fucking look at it.”

Kyle did as he was told, taking the paper into his hands. He froze as he absorbed the sight of the front page, breathing suspended.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, getting to his feet. “Who is it?”

“Haven’t got the faintest.”

“What you panicking for?” he frowned, growing confused. “This is… well surely this is good, isn’t it?”

“No. Now it just becomes some silly guessing game. Speculation. Like they’re trying to weed us out.”

Everything had happened so quickly that John hadn’t even had time to begin to think about it himself. Kyle probably wasn’t the best person to do it with, but right now he was his only option. 

“I need to know who it is,” John declared. 

“Give me a minute to read it properly.”

John sat in sullen silence as Kyle took his time to pore over the article, brows furrowed over his dark eyes as he digested everything.

“Tell you who it is - it’s Hector Bellerin.”

“No fucking chance,” John scowled, sorely disappointed by Kyle’s suggestion. “Doesn’t make him gay ‘cause he wears edgy gear and cares about the environment. I reckon he’s straight you know, Walks.”

“Alright, so who’d you bloody think it is? You’re forgetting that this is the Sun. How’d you even know it’s real?”

“The letter’s been published through Stonewall. They’re a big LGBT charity, Kyle. They won’t have released it unless they’re one-hundred percent certain it’s real. And the fact this person wanted to actually write an open letter makes me think they’re proper serious about it.”

Kyle began to pace the length of the room, resting his hand on his chin. Any Columbo vibes were promptly ruined by the fact he was clothed in nothing but a pair of tight briefs.

“I’ve never seen Chilwell with a bird,” he mused. “Or Maddison.”

“They’re both only twenty-three.”

“So?”

“So, does that not feel a bit young to you? To be writing that they’re at the age where they desperately want a relationship?” He knew that it was a bullshit excuse; he just didn’t want to face the truth. “Ah, christ, Kyle, I dunno.”

“Bet you it’s Dier. He’d do something pathetic like this.”

“Did you not hear what I’ve just said? Have you even read the fucking article?!”

“Alright, alright!” 

“Dele and Eric have been together for a couple of years now. They aren’t far off being found out but they’re not exactly the ones crying ‘cause they can’t have a relationship.”

Kyle came to rest at the foot of his bed and aimed a calculating stare at John.

“Anyone might think it was you, Johnny.”

“That’s exactly what I’m terrified about.”

“Who even knows you’re bisexual?” 

This wasn’t an exercise John wanted to do so early in the morning, but he accepted it was probably called for given the circumstances.

“Well… there’s you, and David—“

“David? As in David Silva? David Silva knows?”

“Yes, David Silva knows. How many more men with names pronounced Da-vid do you know?”

“I’m just wondering how he knows.”

“Slip of the fucking tongue, alright? So there’s you, David, Dele, Dier, Chilwell—“ 

“Fucking hell, sounds like you’re already out—“

“Would you shut the fuck up?” he grunted, mind racing. “That’s five, and then, well, then there’s… Leroy.”

“Leroy?!” Kyle wailed.

“There’s a lot I haven’t fucking told you, alright?”

“Well fucking tell us, then!”

“Leroy tried to say sorry for reading my notes from therapy, but he got all confused and panicked and asked me to kiss him before he left—“

“What?!”

“Kyle, would you stop fuckin’ interrupting us?!” 

“A kiss from Leroy is exactly what you want, surely!”

“He has a girlfriend and a fucking kid!”

“Hasn’t exactly stopped you before, has it?”

It was hard to believe it was barely half-six in the morning; the way they were shouting; the rage John suddenly felt consuming him.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you,” he jeered. “How’s the little one, by the way? Does he look more like mummy or daddy? What d’you reckon, future Instagram model or scumbag footballer?”

That was probably the most horrible thing John had ever said to Kyle, and he regretted it the second it left his lips. Kyle had hardly spoken about his newest arrival, mainly because it was the lovechild from an affair, and he knew he’d get ripped apart if he acknowledged the child existed. It was clear John had gone too far, and there was no chance Kyle was going to be the bigger person.

“Do you want to have to explain to Pep why you can’t play this afternoon, after I give you a black eye and a bloody nose?”

John started laughing. The anxiousness, paranoia, fear, disbelief and regret had all morphed into one, and he found himself carried away, dropping to his knees and clutching his chest as he howled with laughter.

If he carried on much longer he suspected he’d be in danger of passing out from a lack of air, an idea which seemed weirdly blissful to him in such a frantic moment. But the fantasy was pulled out from underneath him as he felt a fist strike the side of his face, causing a powerful burning sensation to rocket through his entire skull.

He scrambled backwards, in awe that his friend had taken a hand to him. Kyle looked instantly regretful, but it was clear it had been no accident.

“Ow, you fucking horrid cunt!” John yelped, clutching his jaw. “The fuck d’you do that for?!”

“You were fucking scaring me!”

“So you thought you’d try and fucking knock me out?!” 

“Oh, stop exaggerating, you muppet!”

“Secretly gutted you didn’t knock me out, aren’t you?!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kyle spat. “These walls are paper fucking thin!” 

“It’s only Kev next door,” John scoffed, deliberately raising his voice. “Don’t worry, I don’t mind him knowing I’m bent!”

Kyle decided he’d had enough of the pantomime and tore past John, storming into the bathroom to put some space between them. It was almost as if they’d woken up completely pissed, and being locked up in that cramped hotel room had brought things to a boil, causing John to lash out at the only person around.

It didn’t take long for Kyle to clear his throat and reemerge, keeping his distance as he stood beneath the bathroom door. 

“Whatever happened with you and Grealish? You said you were texting him, way back before lockdown. Could be him in the paper, couldn’t it?”

John felt his stomach burn. It was a possibility, of course it was, but he knew it wouldn’t be him, couldn’t be him. 

“No,” he muttered, head between his legs as he slouched on the floor. “It’s not Jack.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Jack wouldn’t write something like that and put it out.”

Kyle narrowed his eyes. “Just a hunch that, is it?”

Here we fucking go, John thought.

“No, Kyle. Jack wouldn’t do it because I’ve mentioned time and time again how I don’t think it’d do us any favours to come out, and as much as he probably hates my fucking guts right now, he wouldn’t go against my word.”

“John…” Kyle warned, stepping back into the bedroom. “John, I swear— I swear, if you tell me now that you and Grealish—“ he paused and stuck his fingers in his ears. “Please tell me I’m hearing you wrong.”

John would’ve buckled with laughter again if his whole head wasn’t throbbing. Still, confirming Kyle’s worst fears was providing him with the tiniest bit of satisfaction, especially after taking that punch. He’d have been dying to rub it in his face if their relationship hadn’t so recently plunged into oblivion.

“You listening, Ky?” John taunted. “No, come on, take your fingers out your ears and listen to me.”

The horror on Kyle’s face was something to behold. “You’re killing me here, John.”

“Fingers out your ears, now. You’re gonna wanna hear this.”

“Don’t fucking say it. Don’t, John.”

“I lived with Jack over lockdown. Just me and him together for five straight months at his house,” John declared. “No work, no interruptions. It was incredible.”

“You silly little bastard,” Kyle hissed. “I told you not to sleep with him!”

“Well you know what? You get the last laugh anyway, because we’ve ended it, literally just last week.”

“Come to your fucking senses, did you?”

“What happened was that on top of the chance we’ll both get sold in summer and end up in completely different ends of the country, I liked him more than he liked me, so I had a massive fucking breakdown and couldn’t communicate it to him,” John explained, managing to reel it off the tongue as if he couldn’t care less. “So yeah, Kyle, I suppose you could say I came to my fucking senses!”

Kyle was suddenly subdued. Maybe he’d noticed the tears in John’s eyes, or the hurt on his face, or the way his voice had broken and cracked. 

“What, how’d it… how’d it happen? Big argument?”

“I told him I would leave, ‘cause it’s his house, and I didn’t want him to feel like he had to kick me out,” John admitted, fighting to hold back tears. “But I’d pissed him off so much he said he was going before I could, so he got in his car and fucked off. It was probably just to think for a while, but I panicked, and I packed up all my stuff, and I threw it in my car, and I left. I just fucking left, Kyle, and I locked the door… and I posted my key through the letterbox.” 

“You… posted your key back through the letterbox?”

“Is that as bad as it sounds?”

“Yeah, that’s pretty bad. Jesus, that’s harsh, that, John. Even for you.”

This was the first time he’d told anyone. He’d kept it bottled up ever since it had happened, and aside from a number of anxiety attacks here and there he’d been able to compartmentalise the blow-up, set it aside in his mind, and convince himself they’d both be better off this way. 

But sleeping alone, having to make every brew for himself, not having someone to moan to - it was eating him alive. And worse than anything, he knew it had to be Jack. No-one could take his place. No-one else could sleep beside John without annoying him, make a brew so perfect, or listen to John’s endless complaints day in, day out. No-one understood their positions in the world better than they did for each other, and no-one knew John like Jack knew him.

It was becoming more and more apparent that John had fucked it, big time. 

“Have you spoken to him since?”

“No,” he whined. He was crying properly now, flushed cheeks and all, sniffling into the back of his sleeve. “I wanted to, so badly, but he hasn’t called, hasn’t texted. And I’m the one who left, so I can’t go back on what I did. He’s probably realised he’s better off without me. He was probably glad he got home and I was gone.” 

Kyle lowered himself to his knees, realising he had a task and a half ahead of him in consoling John. That was, until, loud thuds echoed off the front of their door, causing them both to fall silent.

“Who is it?” Kyle eventually called.

“It’s Pep,” a voice responded. 

Even in John’s frantic state he could tell it most certainly was not Pep on the other side of that door. Sounded nothing like him. No, that voice was another kind of grating. It was the ginger prat from the room next to them. 

“I’m kidding, of course. It’s Kevin. You woke me up with your fucking yelling. Least you can do is let me in, eh?”

Kyle looked at John with alarm, obviously wondering how they were going to explain this. But John was past caring - the trashed hotel room, the tears rolling down his cheeks, the bruise developing on his jaw - he trusted Kev to see it all.

“It’s open,” he announced, throat croaky. “Forgot to lock it behind me.”

“John, are you sure mate?”

Kyle’s question was futile as Kev burst through the door almost instantly, motions stalling once he took in the scene.

“What the fuck’s going on?” he questioned, shuffling into the room. “Have you two been drinking?”

With a shake of his head John gestured to one of the beds. His limbs felt heavy, weighted by everything he’d been carrying around with him. He wanted to be free of it, or at least to shed some of the weight. He supposed he’d never come across a more perfect time than this.

“Sit down, Kev, and I’ll tell you all about it. Might as well get Raheem in here while we’re at it.”

Kyle did a double-take, gawping between John and Kevin with panicked eyes. “You being serious?”

“I can’t keep it to myself anymore, Walks,” he declared. “Want my mates to know.”

A heavy sigh escaped Kyle’s body, his broad shoulders slumping as he got to his feet.

“Let me get some bloody pants on, at least.”

-

Bernardo had sent a message into the group chat inviting people round to his for drinks. To say John couldn’t be arsed would be an understatement. He was still knackered from travelling down to Brighton and back, exhausted from playing, and emotionally drained from going through the turmoil of getting everything off his chest. 

With that being said, he couldn’t stand another minute alone with his thoughts. That, and the fact Bernardo only lived two floors below him. He had absolutely no excuse not to go, and the other lads knew it.

He showered and changed before heading down to Bernardo’s flat with a bottle of wine in hand. He’d have rather been on the cans, but he remembered his teammate’s posh new girlfriend might be knocking about, and turning up with a four-pack of Carling probably wasn’t a sharp look. 

It came as no surprise when Mendy answered the door. 

“Ooh, what’s this?” were the Frenchman’s first words as he snatched the wine from John’s hands, raising the bottle in order to inspect the label. “When did you get so fancy?”

Since he and Jack had started drinking wine with their meals, he supposed. 

Fuck. That must’ve been about the hundredth time today. Fucking everything reminded him of Jack. 

He was hoping his feelings of dread hadn’t shown on his face, but Mendy had already torn off down the hall. John trudged in and shut the door behind him. 

“John’s here!” Mendy announced.

“Hey, Johnny!” Bernardo beamed from the comfort of his sofa. 

His round cheeks were flushed and rosy, no doubt a result of the half-empty glass of red wine sat on the coffee table in front of him. They had no match until the weekend and there was no training tomorrow. Maybe John would follow in Bernardo’s footsteps and allow himself to get a little tipsy. 

Who was he kidding - he’d been pissed almost every night since he’d fled from Jack’s - avoiding soberness was like muscle memory now.

Ilkay and Kevin soon turned up, both shocked, but as equally pleased by John’s presence. They’d brought food and more wine, and Bernardo forced them to sit at the table to eat, saying it would be rude otherwise. John knew he was probably just terrified of Mendy spilling sauce on the carpet.

In fact, he’d noticed the apartment was immaculately clean, and there were vases of flowers dotted around as if the place was a show-home. Didn’t a take a genius to work out why that was.

In between mouthfuls of his food, John asked casually, “Where’s your bird, Bernardo?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he shot back, eyebrows sparked. 

John would’ve burst into laughter at the idea of him ever trying to get in there with Bernardo’s girlfriend if he wasn’t so romantically wounded. He didn’t even know what to say, so when Kevin appeared to be eavesdropping and opened his mouth to speak, John had false hope that he’d been saved. 

“Yeah, better watch yourself around John, eh? You know what he’s like with the ladies.”

Sheer instinct forced John to boot Kevin’s leg under the table. 

“Hey - watch it,” Kevin whined, defending himself despite knowing he’d gone overboard. “You want to win another trophy before your career’s over, don’t you?”

“Fuck me,” John muttered under his breath. “Bit brutal.”

Kevin now knew everything there was to know about John’s life, as did both Kyle and Raheem as well. It’d felt like an out of body experience, recalling every minute detail of his actions over the past twelve months or so, trusting his closest teammates not to say a word and reserve all their judgement.

Well, maybe it had been a bit much to ask them to reserve any judgement. Raz and Kev had practically been beside themselves once they realised John and Leroy’s fractious relationship had been going on right under their noses, and the revelation of he and Jack living together through lockdown had them both with their head in their hands, pleading for it to be some kind of elaborate joke.

“I fucking knew something was going on with you, didn’t I?” was Raheem’s choice response. “Didn’t I, John? You should’ve told me!”

Kevin, on the other hand, had nothing much else to say other than, “I can’t believe you let someone do anal to you.”

Neither could John to be fair, but he’d have let Jack do anything to him.

It was a step, letting three of his mates in on everything - a huge step - but John wasn’t out of the woods by any stretch. It would be moments like this, like being in Bernardo’s flat, where Kev knew everything but no-one else did, that would test him. 

And the slightest slip-up, the smallest rumour, would mean John’s secret could be out there for everyone to see, to rip him apart with. Hot on the heels of that article in the Sun, the identities of those in the Prem who were having to hide themselves away all felt very much at tipping point.

It’d especially be moments like now, where John was semi-wine-drunk and still absolutely heartbroken, that tested him. 

“Aren’t United playing against Aston Villa?” Ilkay asked, well aware of the answer. “Put it on.”

“No, no,” John groaned, waving his hand. “Let’s not.”

“Why not?”

There were many reasons, but only one that made him sick to his stomach. 

“‘Cause… ‘cause you know it’ll be a load of shite. They’re boring as fuck.”

“Just in the background, John.”

“Put some tunes on instead. Let’s talk. Anything but that crap.”

“Sorry Johnny,” Bernardo huffed, pointing the remote at the telly, “but you’re outvoted.”

Fuck.

John couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen, or more specifically, Villa’s number ten. If it wasn’t for the overwhelming urge to cry that he felt chipping away at his chest he reckoned he’d have probably got a hard-on.

Everything about the way he looked was perfect, trademark Jack. The long-sleeve thermal pulled down over his knuckles, the tight shirt and the captain’s armband, the rolled-down socks and the battered boots, the short-shorts and the way they accentuated that fucking arse. The sunkissed skin and the dyed tips of his hair, the muscular calves and the stern expression as he barked orders at his teammates.

The idea that what John was seeing was a fabricated image and not actually real, created from thousands of tiny pixels, made him lightheaded. Only last week he’d held Jack as they lay in bed together, had brushed his lips against the other man’s forehead when he’d started mumbling away to himself in his sleep. The dips and curves of their muscles had settled together, skin burning with heat from the need to be closer, as close as was humanly possible. 

Now the pull in John’s chest reminded him he was no different to anyone else sat in their living room watching on, commenting on the events playing out, pining over the captain and his brilliance.

But quite unusually, Jack was playing disastrously. The position he was occupying was far too wide in a far too narrow space, meaning he was confined to a little strip down the edge of the pitch. 

He kept trying to dribble his way past Shaw, but time and time again he’d be surrounded by more and more red shirts before being pushed to the floor. United knew the drill - stop Jack and you stop Villa. 

When he did break away, usually on the counter, he’d take far too long to control the ball, often losing it as he attempted to turn. The second he was dispossessed he’d swing his arms about, head thrown back in a cry of frustration. John had seen that kind of sulky attitude on the pitch many times before, but never from Jack.

He couldn’t help but feel completely and utterly responsible for Jack’s disappointing performance.

It was just before half-time when something flew across the room and hit John in the side of the head. A cushion had been pelted at him, and a swift glance up told him Kevin was the culprit, being the only one in the room looking his way. 

“Hey—“ he called, forcing his coldest glare. “I thought you said you didn’t want to watch this?”

It was a plea, a warning to let John know that if he wasn’t careful he’d land himself in hot water. The other three were having a chat about something other than the game, and while it didn’t seem like John was being missed, his silence was becoming suspicious. 

“Couldn’t help myself,” he muttered, forced to avert his eyes from the screen. 

Ilkay turned his attention to the screen with a sneer. “Is that Grealish on the floor again?”

Everyone was quickly interested in the game, scoffing as the camera focused in on Jack. A sense of dread crashed over John.

Jack looked really, truly hurt. He was crouched with his forehead against the turf, grunting through gritted teeth as he grasped his right ankle. John knew it’d been causing him problems for a few games now. He’d played through it of course, knowing every second he wasn’t on the pitch was another second he couldn’t pull the strings in their fight for survival.

A moment passed and he hadn’t moved, hadn’t made his usual recovery, so the medics were sent on for him, sprinting to his side. How John wished he could be there, fingers interlocking with his, taking the piss out of Maguire to shift Jack’s mind off the pain.

“He needs some bigger fucking shinpads,” Bernardo proclaimed, probably expecting that particular observation to earn him a few laughs. “What does he expect?”

“And if you are the most fouled player in the league,” Ilkay said, “you’d think, ‘huh, maybe I should get myself some better shinpads!’”

John wasn’t sure if the banter was shit because English was Gundo’s second language, or simply because he had no sense of humour. He’d bank on the latter.

He held his tongue, thankful for the return of breath to his lungs as he watched Jack finally get to his feet.

“He think’s he’s cool,” Ben commented. “That tan is fake. It’s a fake tan, no?”

Kev let out a little chuckle, apparently forgetting John was in the room. “I think he uses sunbeds.”

“Sunbeds — you fucking serious?”

“A guy?” Bernardo frowned. “On a sunbed?”

Oh, a lad on a fucking sunbed? God forbid what Bernardo would think about the fact Jack had also taken it up the arse from John on the regular if a sunbed was where he drew the line.

“Do you think his hair is naturally that colour too?”

One more word from any of them and John was in danger of flipping the fucking coffee table and taking a glass to someone’s throat.

“I wonder if he’s got crowns.”

“I’m going to the loo,” John announced, shooting to his feet. “My loo, in my flat. And no, Grealish doesn’t have crowns.”

John was thankful for being tipsy enough not to go insane with panic at the thought of what everyone would make of his abrupt departure. He fled Bernardo’s apartment and found himself waiting for the lift, pressing the buttons again and again until the doors eventually opened. 

He caught sight of his ghastly expression reflected back at him in the mirror on the far side of the lift. The hollows of his cheeks looked even more gaunt than usual, his eyes deeper and deader than they already were, and he was in desperate need of a shave. He should’ve taken the stairs.

Once he got to his flat he did as he said he would, trailing himself into the bathroom to break the seal. Weirdly, he found it a bit of a task to get his aim right. Watching Jack had sent his adrenaline levels through the roof, and it had clearly increased the blood-flow to certain parts of his body as well. 

He’d had a number of cry-wanks over the past week, but now wasn’t the time. 

And he was glad he’d made that decision as his ears pricked up at the sound of movement from his front door. He had shut it behind him, hadn’t he? With a quick shake and zip of his fly he tiptoed back through to his hallway. He soon came face to face with Kevin, who was loitering by the door, hands in his pockets.

John stopped in his tracks and frowned at his teammate.

“How’d you get in?”

“You left it unlocked,” he replied, deadpan. “Came to make sure you weren’t throwing yourself off your balcony.”

“Well welcome to my flat, Kevin!” John declared sarcastically, throwing his arms up by his sides. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you!”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “You can’t hide your sadness with rudeness.”

“Can, actually,” John shot back, but the lump in his throat said otherwise. And as if the universe was punishing him for that retort, right on queue, he burst into tears.

It was quite clear Kev had absolutely no idea what to do. He shuffled from foot to foot, wondering if he should approach John, who had brought the bottom of his shirt up to his face, allowing him to cry into the fabric.

“Is this because of me?” Kevin questioned, keeping his distance. “Did I make you cry? I was only joking about the sunbed thing, but now I think about it, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“You’re honestly the worst person in the world to cry in front of,” John muttered in between hiccups. “Worse than Kyle. You’ve got no clue how to deal with someone crying, do you?”

“I’ve never seen you like this! What do I do, then? You tell me!”

“Just… just give me a fucking hug, Kev.”

A genuine shiver ran through Kevin’s body. “A hug?”

“I know we both hate physical contact more than anything in the world, but just fucking do it for me this once, alright?”

A muffled groan of distaste escaped Kevin, but he put himself up to the task, awkwardly wrapping his arms around John’s torso. John responded by bundling himself into Kev, ensuring his face was in a position where he’d feel the wet tears roll down his neck, just as a little something extra to make him cringe.

“Jesus, John. We need to find you a rebound.”


	19. norwich at home

Norwich on the last day of the season. The opposition were already long gone, had been bottom of the table for months now, a stark contrast to City’s undisputed spot as runners-up. To his own surprise John had been gifted a start, a spot back between Aymeric and Kyle to ring in the end of a very long, arduous season.

He supposed he should’ve been pleased. It was a sign Pep approved of how he’d been training lately, and there was no reason for him not to pick his best eleven for the final league fixture. Except nothing was ever as simple as that, and John was John. In short, he’d woken up an anxious mess - but his worry had little to do with the game he’d be playing.

As per final day tradition, every game in the league was set to kick off at the same time, meaning Villa would be playing West Ham at the same time that City were playing Norwich. Villa still weren’t safe. A win or a draw would keep them up, would keep Jack up, up where he belonged in the Premier League. A loss, though - a loss would send him straight back down.

John would say he couldn’t even begin to imagine the pressure the Villa captain must’ve been feeling, but he knew Jack all too well. For him it’d be like water off a duck’s back, like the formation of diamonds. His mentality was enviable. Today was different though. Today was maybe the one day of the year where John wouldn’t envy Jack.

He should’ve been there for him that morning, waking up with him in his arms, telling him he needn’t worry. He was brilliant, and he was more than capable of creating a moment of magic to carry his team to safety. 

“If anyone could do it, it’d be you,” he’d have said.

He’d have let him shower first, had a brew waiting for him just how he liked it (milky with one-and-a-half-sugars), and then kissed his temples repeatedly in an effort to distract him the world around them. There’s no saying he’d have needed such fuss, and he’d have probably swatted John away and called him daft or soft, maybe both, but that smile on his face would’ve said he felt otherwise about him.

John could still feel his touch on his fucking skin, could hear his deep drawl in his ears, could envision exactly how it’d be if they were together. Imagine every tiny colloquialism of his, every habit, every freckle on his face. But that’s all it was. His imagination. 

Kevin had at least dropped his mission of trying to set John up with someone else. Come to think of it, he’d only given up because he didn’t know anyone to set him up with. It didn’t matter either way to John; the idea of anyone else made his stomach turn in disgust.

Raheem, on the other hand, had been on at John for the past week or so. But rather than forcing him to move on, he’d been telling him to give Jack a call and clear the air.

“It’s all over your face,” he’d tutted in the canteen one day. “And the longer you leave it, the worst it will get.”

“What are you now? The guilty conscience on my shoulder?” John scowled. “I think he’s made it pretty clear how he feels. if he wanted to speak to me he would, wouldn’t he. Wouldn’t he?”

Raheem rolled his eyes and gave John that deeply judgemental look he was a master of. “Considering how west it’s sent you, I think you know the answer.”

John was terrible at self-reflection. He couldn’t tell if he was a stubborn person or not, didn’t know if that was one of the traits he’d attribute to himself. Sarcastic, cutting, pretentious, blunt - he’d agree with any one of those. But stubborn? When it came to other people’s mistakes, times where he was meant to hold a grudge, he could never quite manage it. But when he was the one who’d fucked up you could bet he’d never let it slide, instead mulling on it for the rest of his days rather than doing anything to set it right.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it as he made his way out of the tunnel and onto the pitch.

It was a clear, brisk, bright day in Manchester. John placed his hands on the back of his hips and raised his chin towards the skies overhead, struck by the notion that somewhere two-hundred miles south Jack might be doing the same thing, and they were looking at the same sky. Whether he’d be thinking of John was a different matter.

With the ref going through the formalities Kevin took the chance to circle John, always conscious of having his back to the camera circling him. John wondered if his teammate had put two and two together yet and realised Grealish was about to play the most important ninety minutes of his career so far, and it would mean more to John than whatever the score was going to be today. Either way, he looked concerned.

“Focus, eh?” he warned. “Let’s see you at your best, okay? I know you can.”

He’d heard that before, hadn’t he?

Regardless, he gave a curt nod and retreated to his position on the edge of the box. To his right Kyle had started to do the same, but not before he’d shot a look at John and pointed a finger in his direction. 

“No losing your fuckin’ head, alright?”

There were two kinds of people in the world. Kyle was of the dickhead sort.

The ref blew his whistle and everyone on the pitch lowered themselves to take the knee. A lump formed in John’s throat once he realised Jack was no doubt doing the exact same thing, albeit awaiting a much different fate. 

City couldn’t have hoped for a better start. Granted, Aymeric was a bit tired from playing relentlessly, but the adrenaline coursing through John’s veins was enough for the both of them to neutralise any threat from Norwich. They were two-nil up thanks to Gabi and Kev, David was constructing a masterclass, and Pep wasn’t bellowing at John from the sidelines as he usually would.

But none of that really mattered to John. His mind was elsewhere, desperate to know what was happening down in London. 

As soon as the whistle blew for halftime he was one of the first off the pitch, swerving in and out of staff and security. His sights were set on reaching his phone before anyone had the chance to work out what he was doing. 

The changing room doors slammed against the walls as he tore through them and scrambled towards his seat. His fingers fumbled across his phone in an effort to type ‘Villa West Ham score’ into the search bar, sweat dripping down from his forehead onto the screen.

It was still nil-nil. Fuck.

“John? Okay, bro?”

He turned on his heels to find Bernardo watching him. The rest of the squad and staff had started to flood in, making his jumpy demeanour less obvious. 

“Yeah, fine,” he murmured, placing his phone back down as he tried to create at least some appearance of sanity. “Just needed a piss.”

“Classic John,” Bernardo scoffed. 

John forced a laugh but the frown on his face was from convincing. What did Bernardo even mean by that? Five-foot-seven Portuguese prick. 

He forced himself into the toilet to carry on the facade only to find himself unable to wee, the few lone drops that hit the side of the toilet almost taunting him. He wasn’t sure he could go on for another fifty minutes like this, entirely on edge, simultaneously in need of lashing out or shutting down altogether. 

Could he fake an injury? At least then he’d be taken back to the dressing room, and if he was sneaky enough he could watch Villa on his phone. It’d also mean he’d avoid making any mistakes on the pitch that would no doubt be dissected and torn into by whichever past-it pundit was sat in the press box today. 

Any planning was cut short once he heard his name being yelled out through the ruckus of the dressing room.

“Where’s John? Where is he?”

It was the gaffer. With a grimace he set his shorts back up around his waist and emerged from the urinals, head sheepishly low.

“I’m here.”

“Good, John,” Pep enthused, herding him back to his seat. “When Cantwell came through the gap, and you followed— great, great, John, we need that. Distribution— so important. You to Joao, Joao to Raheem, it works so well this way. More of that, more.”

Fuck. Unless he deliberately wanted to be on the wrong side of Pep there’d be no pulling his hamstring today. 

He started thinking clearer as he sat forward in his seat and absorbed the rest of Pep’s comments. What on Earth was he even playing at, considering faking an injury? He’d had so many genuine setbacks and here he was, thinking of putting on an act just to watch someone who didn’t even want to know him play for a team John had no allegiance to. Even if John could watch he couldn’t change a thing. But the guilt he’d feel if Villa lost - well, he’d never forgive himself.

Win or loss, it was completely out of his hands. What was in his hands, though, was how he played in the second half. Those forty-five minutes would fly by, and with his spot at stake he had no reason not to make the most of it no matter the result in London. 

Deep into the second half John was praying he wasn’t as all over the place as he felt, he and Kyle fending off numerous attacks down the right that just kept coming and coming. 

It was surreal, falling into a frenzied rhythm of scrambling alongside the centre-forward and blocking shot after shot. John eventually decided he’d had enough and snatched the ball away for himself, taking it into the far corner to slow down play and allow them to reorganise themselves. He’d done it many a time at Everton, the cockiness that came from being nineteen something he wished he could resurrect in himself. When he was content with how the pitch had settled he drove forward and played an inch-perfect pass through the midfield for David.

The absent crowd allowed for Pep’s voice to carry from the far side of the pitch over to where John was.

“Yes, John! Yes, that’s it!”

He’d take that.

They’d seen out a difficult half-an-hour, and as a reward another three goals soon came thick and fast. Celebrations were muted, as after all, they were playing a relegated side. From the corner of his eye John watched as the fourth official raised the board to indicate three minutes of added time. 

Three fucking minutes. There were three minutes between him and being able to say he’d played a full match, being able to say he’d contributed to five goals, being able to say he’d managed a fucking clean sheet too. 

What he had to focus on now, though, was trying not to remind himself that there were three minutes until he found out Jack’s fate. Of course, trying to forget it meant it was the only thing he could think about, and when the final whistle blew there was no cause for celebration.

He’d so quickly made himself sick with worry that he needed to know, and needed to know now, couldn’t wait for the trip through the tunnel and up the stairs and into the dressing room. Someone would know. Someone had to.

“Hey, mate—“ John called, bounding towards the bench in pursuit of a media assistant he vaguely recognised. “D’you know who’s gone down?”

“Watford and Bournemouth. Grealish scored a beauty for Villa, eighty-fifth minute. Just enough to keep them up.”

It took all of John’s might not to burst into tears of pride on the spot.

“Well,” he murmured, holding it in, “good for them.”

He bent forward and placed his hands on his knees, exhaling a deep sigh that cleansed his body of the fear that had been brewing deep inside. Jack Grealish winning it late on for his boyhood club. Jack Grealish, the one he loved. There’d never been any doubt. Jesus, did John miss him.

A soft hand fell onto the small of his back. A glance up told John that David had noticed his fatigue as he’d vacated the bench, petite body wrapped in a thick waterproof coat.

“Bueno, Johnny?” he asked, his usual subtle smirk at threat of disappearing from his face. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” John nodded, straightening himself out. “I’m good, actually.”

He was telling the truth - there was no better way that today could’ve gone. To know Jack had done it and was no doubt celebrating now, belting Sweet Caroline, amassing the praise of fans and press alike, gave John a sense of second-hand pride. 

Maybe the only way things could’ve got better was if John knew he could go home to him that evening, could feel the warmth of his body pressed against his, and could gloat, “Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say? If anyone could do it, it’d be you. I told you, didn’t I? I knew you would.”

Thank fuck it was all over, though. The prem, that was. The dreaded Champion’s League was next up, looming over the club like a black cloud. No rest for the wicked, John supposed. Wasn’t as if he had to worry. He’d only be benched anyway.

-

John had been doing a fair bit of jogging in his spare time. Down by the canals, through the city’s parks, anywhere he could distract himself enough to ignore the pain in his chest. 

His method of choice in doing so was by sticking the headphones in and blasting a nostalgic mix of late-2000s dance and garage that made him feel fifteen again. Billy big bollocks at Barnsley FC, just about to get his first England call-up for the under-nineteen’s, four years ahead of his actual age group. Too fucking right he’d rinse it, and too fucking right he’d go rub it in the faces of everyone who’d ever called him a lanky prick in year nine just after he’d hit puberty. His Dad had told him to stay humble, to count his blessings. But a lot of people had called him a lanky prick in year nine.

There was one particular day that John felt more confident than he had for some time. He’d always believed ‘time heals all wounds’ to be true, like how his association with his grandparent’s deaths were nothing more than numbness now rather than the excruciating grief he’d felt as a teenager. But the grief he was experiencing now was rather different. Jack wasn’t gone forever, couldn’t only be remembered through rose-tinted glasses. 

John had set the boundary in his mind that things were over between them, but the words had never actually been spoken, and the thread between them had never actually been severed. There was no respite. He was constantly wondering what Jack was doing, where he was, who he was with. Well, he knew the answer to those particular questions at this point in time, but he found himself wishing he didn’t.

It was all over Instagram. Following their last day win in the league Jack had flown off to Greece, Mykonos to be exact, and had taken John McGinn in tow. Seemed to be that Mykonos was a hotspot right now, as John had noticed Ross Barkley was out there too, along with Dele, but no Dier. 

That had been another thing playing on John’s mind. Sure, Mykonos wasn’t really Eric’s scene, but the last time he’d checked the pair of them were madly in love, joined at the hip, never would’ve gone on holiday without one another. It was strange, and something about it didn’t sit right with John. 

He would’ve reached out to ask what the craic was with it all if it wouldn’t mean he’d have to explain where it had all gone wrong for him and his own relationship. And if he didn’t have such a big fucking fear of missing out he might’ve felt proud he wasn’t involved with the garish football party scene that rolled around every summer, particularly while a contagious disease was still ravaging the globe. 

Fuck knew who Jack was partying with, who he was sleeping with. Could be a lad or a lass, and John didn’t know which he’d prefer. At least if it was a bloke John’d be allowed to swing on him, you know, in adherence to the universal rule that you shouldn’t hit women, but men were fair game. 

Laura Woods seemed out of the picture for the time being at least, busy with whatever shitty show she had on TalkSport. The idea that Jack might have shagged her wasn’t the thing that still kept him awake at night. It was the fact he’d cheated. But the way Jack had looked at him when John had broached the issue, how he’d denied it with such ferocity, such sincerity… he didn’t know if he still believed Jack could’ve done such a thing.

Either way, John knew there had to be someone else now. You don’t go to Mykonos at the end of a long season and not get off, especially being as good-looking (and as loaded) as Jack. 

That’s what he forced himself to believe, anyway. The feeling he had deep down in his stomach, the one that told him it’d be too soon for Jack to sleep with anyone else in the way that it was too soon for him, was naive and hopeless. 

There was nothing particularly different about his jog today, or the dreary Manchester weather, or the weak tug in his abductor muscle he’d had ever since he’d torn it a few seasons back. But like he’d noted before, his confidence had risen. Whether it was the praise Pep had given him at full-time after the last match or the fact he was learning to live on his own, or whether it had been the rage-delete of Instagram he’d done after accepting the fact Jack was having the time of his life without him, he sensed the change. 

It was just as well that today he bumped into someone he’d been avoiding for months. They caught sight of one another from a mile off, and there was no way John was wriggling out of it.

He’d been jogging through one of the nicer parks in the city, one just big enough for families to stop and sit and have a game of kick-about. It made sense that he would come across Callum, his psychologist, absentmindedly pushing a pram with a coffee in his free hand.

“John, mate!” he called, flagging him down with a smile of pleasant surprise.

He slowed and came to a stop at a distance, thankful he’d not pushed himself to a sweat. In attempting to collect his thoughts he realised there were a number of unanswered emails and texts sat in his inbox from Callum that he’d blatantly ignored over lockdown. But on account of what Leroy had done, could he be blamed?

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he conjured a smile. “Ah, Callum, how we doing?”

“Not bad, not bad at all.”

The lad looked well, had grown a bit of dark stubble that accentuated the brown of his eyes. There was an unmistakable tiredness to them, though, and the contents of the pram in front of him was no doubt the reason why. 

“New arrival?” John asked, shifting to get a look. Wrapped up in a pink blanket was a baby no older than six months, angelic and asleep.

“Yeah, something nice for me and the missus just in time for lockdown,” Callum gushed, rocking the pram back and forth. “Getting her out for the day while her mam’s doing the food shop.”

“Well congrats, mate, that’s great news.”

“And how are you, John?” Callum asked, searching his face for signs of change. “I sent you a couple of texts over lockdown, you know, just trying to check in, see how you were.”

John’s stomach plummeted. “Yeah, about that. Listen, I’m sorry for not replying.”

Before he could begin to explain himself Callum raised an apologetic hand and waved at the air.

“Na, not at all. I sort of knew it’d be a long shot, ‘cause Leroy called me, actually, just before he left. Told me what had happened, about him reading the notes I made in sessions with you.”

That was the last thing John had expected to come up in conversation. Callum had announced it so casually, so honestly, that for once it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world. 

“I’m sorry about that John, and I have to take blame, ‘cause I shouldn’t have been so careless,” Callum sighed. “But Leroy was broken up mate, he was in bits, and he regretted it, he really did.”

John found himself believing it. “Yeah, we… we spoke about it actually, cleared the air. I was… I took it bad, at the time, but we’re alright now. It wasn’t too much of a big deal after a while, really. So much else has happened, it’s all been a bit mental for me.”

“Do you— d’you wanna sit and have a chat?” Callum asked, nodding towards a bench on the side of the path. “Now, if you’ve not got somewhere to be?”

“Wouldn’t wanna keep you, Cal,” John shrugged. He’d only asked out of courtesy, hadn’t he? He probably felt obliged, especially after John had rambled on and revealed he was no less of a fucking nutcase than the last time they’d seen each other. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Don’t be daft. This one’s fast asleep,” Callum chuckled, gesturing into the pram. “You’re a mate, John, you don’t have to be a client.”

What did he have to lose?

“Think it might do me some good, actually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another filler but hey at least it's short, not had that before have we x


	20. lyon away

August was a bad month. 

They’d crashed out of the Champion’s League in spectacular fashion. Confidence in the camp had been at an all-time high after beating Real Madrid for a second time, and as they flew out to Lisbon and geared up for the knock-outs, it seemed that somewhere along the way they’d got a tad too big for their boots. 

Lyon had knocked them right off their perch. Pep had done a classic Champion’s League overthink, completely fucking up their usual formation in favour of complicated channels and pressing. John wouldn’t lie - he was glad he hadn’t had any part in it, arms-length on the safety of the bench. 

He’d still been absolutely gutted, of course he had, but what hurt more than the loss itself was the way Gabi had cried into his chest as John shepherded him into the dressing room at full time, or the way Kev had lashed out in frustration on the coach back to the hotel. 

John was there for them all, for the ones who had taken it the worst, mostly because the burden of pressure had fallen on their shoulders. Gabi, Kev, Kyle, Raz, Ferna - he knew they appreciated his presence. He’d even morphed into something of the team therapist in Lisbon, the go-to for a panicked ramble or a few reassuring words, which was even more surprising considering he’d always been the unstable one.

His therapy was obviously working - once a week without fail, an hour each time, and he even found himself enjoying it. Props to Callum, like. John was stealing his gig. Maybe he should start charging him more. Could you tip a psychologist? 

An unexpected outcome of John’s time in Lisbon had been Pep noticing John’s influence on the team. His work had been off the pitch rather than on it, but he was also back to full fitness and feeling physically at his best. 

“You’re staying, yes?” Pep had murmured to him at the airport on the way home. “You say the word and you stay.”

John had stared at the floor. Pep always loved to spring on him at the most random of times. But he knew how he felt deep down, knew that he liked this club, and knew he trusted his teammates. That was the most important thing for him right now. Change could be good, he knew that, but stability was what he needed. 

“I’m staying.”

A knowing smile had spread across his manager’s face. “Good. Very good.” 

And it was as simple as that. No-one was much in the mood to celebrate, but once they arrived home Kyle, Raheem, and Kev gathered at John’s for dinner, getting very, very drunk in the process. Come what may, it was a reminder that he had people that cared about him, a set of good lads that had his back. At this point he didn’t want change. To feel stability for once, even if it had only been a brief amount of time, signified a step in the right direction.

John supposed some enjoyment of the fleeting days of summer came towards the very end, particularly when Harry Maguire’s face was splashed all over the papers because he’d lamped a cop on his jollies in Greece. 

To be true there was little triumph to be found in the situation, despite the amusing memes. Harry was a good lad and had no malice about him. John knew he never would’ve done a thing like that unprovoked, even if it was maybe a bridge too far, but it didn’t seem as if it had scratched his career at all. Just a few days later and Maguire was called up to the England squad, court verdict pending of course. 

John hadn’t received the same honour of a call-up. In fact, he’d had a frankly awful phonecall with Southgate to confirm his fate.

“I’ve been trying to call you,” Southgate had stated after they’d got the awkward hi, how are you’s, not too bad thanks, out of the way.

John said nothing. He simply hadn’t answered any of the calls because he couldn’t be arsed with the confrontation.

“Have you changed your number, John?”

“Yeah, I… well, I lost all my contacts, actually, so when a number flashes up, I’ve no idea who it is.” A big fat lie conjured up on the spot. Was it bad to feel proud of that? “Sorry about that, Gareth.”

“Not at all. So I suppose I’m calling you to talk about where you’re at currently, in terms of your career, and as a result, your position with England.” 

The thing with Southgate was that he always spoke as if he was speaking to the press; eloquent, clear, and in a way that filled John with dread and low expectations.

“I hear you’re hoping to stay at City and get back your regular starting spot.”

“Yeah, I’m staying. I thought about it, about a move, but in the end I wanted to stay. There’s no better club for me to win things with than City.”

“Is that more important to you than starting regularly, becoming the go-to, a potential captain?”

Let’s see, John pondered - earning the respect of a mid-table fanbase for a couple of seasons without actually winning anything, or staying for the entirety of Guardiola’s reign in what was arguably the best Premier League side ever assembled? 

“That’s what I’m hoping to do at City,” was his alternate response. “You know I want to play every minute of every game, you know that.”

“I know you do. That’s what you’re like, John.” 

Any of the thicker lot Southgate dealt with might’ve failed to read between the lines, but John was in the irregular camp of having brains as well as mediocre-to-satisfactory footballing abilities. And what he’d deciphered was that the waistcoated twat wasn’t pleased with him. 

Alright, he was pish compared to that giant at Liverpool, and he was man enough to admit Aymeric was a class above him, but when it came to England he’d toss his hat into the ring and say he was a more skilled, more intelligent player than his peers in the same position. The worst thing was that John could tell Southgate knew it too, but refused to stand by it. 

“I’ve just had a tough time with injuries. It’s fucking— sorry,” he muttered, correcting himself like a schoolboy. “It’s been frustrating. And I was distracted, too.”

“Distracted?”

John choked. “Well I’m not anymore.” Jesus, he had to pull himself together. “But I know this is about England, isn’t it? And I know you’ll have already made your decision, so I’m not sure how much more I need to say.”

“What I want from you, John, is for you to start playing regularly again. I know you’ve been injured, but you’ve only had two starts since the restart. I believe you’re capable of more.”

He felt like that promising kid who’d fallen in with the wrong crowd, forced to sit through another lecture of drivel from an uninspiring deputy head who everyone knew was out of his depth.

“I have to say, you don’t sound massively desperate to join us this break.”

“Hadn’t expected to join you anyway,” John shrugged, returning the honesty. He’d perhaps done it a touch too-heavily, and suddenly grew desperate to shift the attention away from himself. “Who else are you calling up? New lads?”

“Yes, this break is an opportunity to do exactly that. Phil Foden, you’ll be pleased to hear. Mason Greenwood. A number of others.”

He couldn’t fucking help himself. “Jack Grealish?”

“No… no, not Jack.”

“Not Jack?! No fucking— sorry.” He encouraged himself to take a breath, glad that this conversation was over the phone on account of the way he made no attempt to hide the anger blazing away like a fire in his stomach. “Why not Jack?”

Southgate was quiet for a moment or two, and it was a moment too long for John’s liking.

“You sound more concerned about Jack joining us than you are for yourself, John.”

“Because I am. Because Jack deserves a spot. If I can’t get into the squad, I get it,” he fumed, unable to hold back. “But Jack? What more does he have to do? That lad slaved day in, day out, training until he was exhausted to keep Villa up and prove what kind of a player he was. At the end of the day all he wanted was a call-up. You’ll fucking kill him, not calling him up. He’d be the first name on my list. And, I, I’m…”

Oh, fuck. 

“I’m sorry for all that, Gareth. Don’t know where it came from.”

“I didn’t know you and Jack were so close, John.”

“We’re not, really. Used to be, maybe,” he spat out, humiliated. “Anyway, good luck with the break and that.”

-

Another absent name on the England call-up list was that of a Mr Ross Barkley. John knew Ross all-too well; they’d been close at Everton, two spotty young lads who were overhyped and overplayed until they’d both demanded to be moved on to bigger and brighter lights. 

Hindsight was a wonderful thing.

Barkley had been the Walker-to-his-Stones before that relationship had even developed. They’d shared many a night cooped up together in stuffy hotel rooms, wondering if they should call that number for escorts they’d been slipped by one of the older lads. Come to think of it, one of those older lads was the very reason why John had found himself in the company of Ross for the first time in a while. 

He’d been invited to the wedding of an old teammate from Everton who’d since moved on to another club in the Championship. The ceremony itself had been restricted to thirty guests as per covid rules, but apparently the reception was a free-for-all down to the fact they’d hired out an entire hotel for it. 

John wasn’t too sure about the legitimacy of that, and he wasn’t sure what he’d be in for if he got caught attending. He hated weddings as well, despised them and all they signified, where the signing of a piece of paper to sanctify a relationship made no sense to him at all. For obvious reasons it was clear he was only being bitter. 

With that being said, he wasn’t going to pass up the chance for a piss-up and a night of acting like coronavirus was a far-off memory, some sort of fever-dream. Wedding discos were quite often something to behold, bad or good.

He was two pints in and already talking out his arse with some old teammates when Ross Barkley strode into the room. 

The Scouser was tucking his shirt into his trousers as if he’d recently made a trip to the bogs - or as if he’d had his cock out for another reason. Hot on his trail was a brown-haired woman John had never seen before, dressed to the nines in lurid designer clobber more fit for the club than a wedding reception. If John wasn’t wrong he was sure he caught her wipe her mouth before knocking back a flute of prosecco offered to her by a waiter.

Ross didn’t look particularly interested in her, and John wouldn’t say she was exactly bowled over by him either, but that didn’t stop them from hooking arms and putting on a show as they began to make the rounds.

John kept his head down and continued with his conversation. There was a decent atmosphere in the reception hall, where twinkly lights lining the walls and decorative flowers blossoming around the windows were a nice touch. Unfortunately the glamour of the decoration was contrasted by the DJ and his choice to play questionable classics such as Feel by Robbie Williams and Saturday Night by Whigfield. It was a Thursday, and John was mistaken if that song hadn’t become a Liverpool favourite of late. A bit hit and miss for an ex-Everton player’s wedding maybe, but the bride and groom were too pissed to notice.

It’d been some time since John had seen Ross properly. They’d both been sidelined with injuries in the fixtures where City and Chelsea had faced one another, and the last national call-up either of them had received had been in November. Prior to that, of course, they’d been at the centre of last summer’s Nation’s League storm, faulted for their mistakes leading up to the Netherland’s three goals. John was still carrying the weight of it around with him. 

It had only been 2-1 in added extra time and there was no denying England had the quality to equal it out. But John had got trapped in the corner, Depay’s pressing making him skittish, and as he sought a way out he saw Barkley in space. He’d made that exact pass many times before, a long one that skimmed along the turf diagonal to the corner of the pitch. 

Barkley hadn’t been able to control it and lost the touch, allowing Promes to swoop in and finish them off. 

“You’re used to making that exact pass out from the corner to Fernandinho,” Raheem had told him the next day. “Dinho takes that and turns to start a counter-attack. Barkley didn’t know what to do with it. You can’t blame yourself, John.” 

Looking back now it was a poor excuse to get out of accepting responsibility for an adolescent mistake. In John’s fractured state, though, he’d listened to it, and listened to it dutifully. He’d listened to it so much that he’d started to believe it. 

They weren’t best mates by any stretch of the imagination, he and Barkley, but they had history that ran deep. That game, though, had been the final nail in the coffin of their fading relationship.

That wasn’t what John wanted to be thinking about as the night went on, so he kept his distance from Ross, unsure if the other man even knew of his presence. Maybe it was a good thing that he still hadn’t had a trim and was embracing the stubble. The ruggedness of it made him look less keen, less noticeable. By all means, a classic post-break-up look.

He’d lost count of how many pints he’d had, and at some point had mistakenly moved on to the Jack Daniels. By half-ten he was wankered. But without the encouragement of a close mate to work him up he’d managed to avoid making any sort of a fool of himself, instead falling into that drunken melancholy state no-one liked to be in, or be around.

It made him perfect prey for Ross. 

“No plus one, Stonesy?” 

That was a deliberately loaded question.

John held in the expletives he wanted to mutter under his breath as Ross appeared behind him and settled a firm hand onto his shoulder. A moment later and he was pulling out a chair at the table to sit himself down on, legs purposefully parted as wide as possible, thigh muscles straining beneath the fabric of his tight trousers.

“Na, no plus one,” John answered bluntly. “Yours is quite something though,” he declared, nodding towards the mystery brunette who’d found herself a group of girls by the bar to cling onto. 

Ross scratched at his temples. “You think?”

She was something alright, just not John’s type. He’d have to watch himself here, especially in his drunken state. 

“Who wouldn’t?” 

“Well, I’m not sure mate,” Ross frowned, leaning back in his seat. “I’ve been hearing some stuff about you.”

John’s stomach burned, but not from the liquor. “Care to elaborate?” he dared to ask, lump swelling in his throat.

Ross leant forward, his shoulder brushing against John’s, before lowering his tone to declare, “Chilwell’s got some tales, hasn’t he?” 

Had he fucking heard that right?

“Christ, neck some of that drink Stonesy, you look like you’re about to keel over,” Ross laughed, moving John’s glass to sit right in front of him on the table. “All true then, I take it? You and Grealish, paradise in lockdown, all cut a bit short? It’d never really crossed my mind that you might like lads, John, but now I think about it, it makes complete sense.”

“You know here’s really not the fucking place, Barks, bud.”

“You’re so fucking touchy. Always were.”

The audacity of this man was fucking unbelievable. John glared at him down the length of his nose, wondering if it was possible for him to come to his senses. Ross just stared back. It didn’t take long for John to realise that Barkley had no sense in his entire fucking body.

“You’re really gonna take the mick out of me for something you have no right knowing? And you’re bringing it up now? Here? Is there any wonder I’m fucking touchy about it?”

Ross shrugged in denial and took a swig of his drink. “Was only gonna ask who you want me to batter for you first. Grealish or Chilwell? Take your pick.”

“Chilwell? What’s Chilwell got to do with it?”

It’d been his own disbelief that had made him ask that question. Ross’ body stilled as he waited for John to put two and two together for himself. He remembered now - Chilwell had made the move to Chelsea from Leicester at the start of summer, hadn’t he? Ross had been in training with him, and in turn had somehow found out about John and Jack. The connection was all too obvious.

“They’ve been shagging, haven’t they?” John murmured, voice hoarse. “Since me and Jack… stopped?”

“Can’t put my life on it like, but Chilwell’s always texting him, this and that. Seems friendly, is all I’m saying. Very fucking friendly.”

“Who the fuck’s Chilwell been shooting his mouth off to?”

Ross looked more exhilarated than concerned by John’s rage, and was happy to play up to the occasion. 

“If I’m being honest, Stonesy, it wasn’t Chilwell I heard it from first.”

“Do pray tell, Ross, before I smack you.”

“You know I’d batter you.”

He absolutely would as well. On second thought, it wasn’t John who’d been knocked out in a nightclub a couple of years back, caught on camera for the world to see. In this temper he’d give him a run for his money.

“Just get on with it, Ross. And don’t you dare have me on.”

“Like I would ever,” he sneered, flashing his crowns. “Well, it’s a funny story actually, Jonathan. Funny for me anyway, maybe not so funny for you. I saw Grealish when we were both on our holidays, will have been just under a month ago now. Was at one of those boat parties, loads of fit lasses and that. He was eyeing up a girl I’d been speaking to, so as I do, I had to get a word in, let him know who’s boss. I went over and told him the gay boys were on the other side of the deck, so I didn’t know what he was doing over where he was.”

“You’ve got to be taking the piss,” John muttered, deadpan.

“I’m honestly not,” he laughed, Scouse accent thickening. “Don’t get offended, like.”

“Don’t get offended? You’ve just admitted you were openly homophobic to my ex, Ross!”

“Fuck off, I’m not homophobic. I was only having a laugh. I’m mates with you, aren’t I?”

“Do you seriously want me to answer that?”

“Ah, come on Stonesy, it was an innocent comment,” Ross cajoled. “At that point I didn’t even know he was gay. Just thought he loved himself a bit too much not to be - not saying you’re like that, but swings and roundabouts, innit? And I was right, wasn’t I?”

“For the record he’s bisexual, and he likes girls too, same as me, alright?”

“Well you learn something new everyday, don’t you?” he scoffed, knocking back the remainder of his drink. John did the same, not sure he’d be able to make it through the rest of the night without getting blind-drunk. “Anyway, Grealish started on me, on this boat, in front of everybody. Almost bust my lip. Could probably do better than you in a fight, to be fair.”

“I think we’ve established anyone would do better in a fight than me.”

“Too right, you’re built like a fucking shoelace. Well, when we were being separated, Grealish started shouting shite about you. Was all like, ‘you can have Stonesy now anyway’. I thought, hang on a minute, what the fuck is going on here? And he was like, ‘oh, bet you’ve been gagging for a piece of him.’” Ross stopped himself and held his hands up in the air dramatically. “I haven’t, like.”

John wasn’t too sure about that, but he held back the sarky comment threatening to leave his mouth. 

“So summat clicked, and I realised you’ve been shagging Jack Grealish. You could sleep with any bird in this country, any bloke even, and you choose Grealish?”

“You not seen his legs?” 

“You sick fuck,” Ross retorted. 

“I fucking hate you Ross,” John stated, looking at his old teammate with pure disgust. 

“Eh?”

“You’re homophobic, probably a little bit racist, genuinely a bit of a cunt, and you scare me. Like, actually scare me, ‘cause you’re smart, but you’re so out of touch, too.” John knew he should stop, that this was an alcohol-fuelled rant he’d regret in the morning, but he didn’t want it to end. “There’s just no-one I’d rather have on my side when it comes to a scrap, so I’ll make an effort to stay in your good books, and I’ll try to keep you in mine.”

Ross looked confused, but his frown swiftly wavered, eyebrows quirking upwards as if he’d rather allow himself to be impressed.

“Don’t know how to take that, really, Stonesy. Think we could do with another drink, though.”

That was something they could both agree on. Ross headed off in the direction of the bar and allowed John a few minutes to himself so he could think things through.

Ross was trying to tell him that Jack was sleeping with Chilwell. It wasn’t a long shot by any means, considering their history. And as much as John knew Ross liked to stir the pot he would never deliberately try to hurt a friend. He was a twat, but he wasn’t sadistic. Well, John hoped not.

The one part of the story that didn’t seem to make much sense to John was what Jack had supposedly said to Ross in the aftermath of their scuffle. ‘You can have Stonesy now anyway’. He couldn’t recall a time he’d ever spoken to Jack about Barkley, had ever texted him or even thought about him in the company of Jack. 

Unless Jack had formed an opinion of John and Ross’ relationship in his own mind from years-old photos the very idea he’d say something about it didn’t add up. But Ross had found out about John and Jack somehow, hadn’t he? Where did Chilwell fit in in all of this? Nothing seemed right about any of it.

Ross returned quicker than John had hoped him to. 

“Here, get that down you,” he insisted, handing John a glass half-filled with dark liquid.

The first sip burned the the back of his throat and made him cough. “Is that straight?” 

“It’s a good scotch. If you’re not happy with it I’ll gladly have back the tenner it cost to buy.” 

Fair fucks, John thought, forcing it down. Ross Barkley buying scotch. What would John’s mam say if she could see the pair of them now? Probably something along the lines of, ”Always told you that lad was trouble, didn’t I?” 

There was just one more thing John wanted to ask before he was too drunk to string a sentence together.

“You know Laura Woods?”

“Laura Woods?” Ross repeated, rolling his tongue around his mouth. “Fit blonde one, bit posh?”

“Yeah, that’s her. Heard from someone that Jack might’ve been seeing her, too.”

“Christ Almighty Stonesy, you not keep a leash on him at all?” 

John refused to answer that. 

“But no, mate, not heard anything about Grealish and that tart. Didn’t think she liked footballers, though. Seem to remember rugby lads are a bit more her style.”

That information was of absolutely no help to anyone, least of all John.

With a sigh he stretched his legs out under the table, arms folded across his chest as he watched the bride and groom lost in the crowd of party-goers on the dance floor. You could tell they were enamoured by one another, unable to be parted for even a second, taking turns to sing the lines in Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. John noted that the DJ had picked up his act as they approached midnight.

Everything was still way too raw, too tender for John to ignore the sadness lining the pit of his stomach. But he could appreciate the love he was witnessing, and wanted to at least try and share in the newlywed couple’s joy. He only wished Jack was by his side to do so, to sing Dionne Warwick’s version of I Say A Little Prayer down his ear as they watched the congregation dance to it from the sidelines.

“When was the last time Chilwell was injured?” John asked breezily, glancing at Ross from the corner of his eye. “Could do with some time out, don’t you reckon?”

A groan rumbled in Ross’ throat to indicate he’d love to, but knew better. “I’m not injuring him on the sly, John. He’s a teammate now. I’d hit him fair and square if you really wanted me to, but I’m not sticking a boot in in training. Think we’ve got Villa early doors. What you saying?”

“I’m saying no. You aren’t touching Jack.”

“Na, I’ll leave that to you, eh?”

Yeah, John fucking hated Ross.

-

“John. Hi.”

Jesus. This was the last thing John wanted when he was absolutely hanging. What did this beak-nosed Tory want, ringing him for the second time in the space of a week? 

“Hi, Gareth.”

“As you may have seen, Harry isn’t going to be able to join us now on account of his situation in Greece, so I have one place left in the squad. Now for me, it makes sense to call you up.”

Relief and pride should’ve flooded his body, but it felt wrong. How could Southgate still be getting it so wrong?

“I… with all respect, Gareth, I still think it makes more sense to choose Jack.”

“Why are you so willing for Jack Grealish to take this spot, John?”

John wanted to ask Southgate why he thought Jack shouldn’t have it.

“He deserves it more than me,” he said instead. “A lot more. I might want it more than anything, a spot in the Euros next summer, to be starting again, just like I did at the World Cup, but Jack… Jack dreams of it, and all he does is try and impress you. If he doesn’t deserve that final place I don’t know who does, and I’m big enough to admit that it isn’t me, at least not over him.”

Southgate was quiet. John hadn’t said anything out of line, had he? He’d been frank, and he’d been honest. He might’ve blown both his and Jack’s chances in one go, but there would’ve been no bigger regret if he hadn’t tried.

“Okay, John,” Southgate eventually sighed. “Okay. Thank you for your honesty.”

You can take your patronising gratitude and shove it up your arse, John wanted to tell him, but he’d already pushed his luck enough. He settled for a meek goodbye instead before the call ended, leaving him torn and frustrated.

He hardly slept that night. But when he did finally manage to drift off he was out for long enough to wake up in the late morning, just after the announcement broke.

Jack had been called up to the senior England squad for the first time. 

A weight lifted off John’s shoulders and tears pooled in his eyes. Southgate was a twat - it shouldn’t have taken the pleading he’d done, not to mention giving up a space, for Jack to get a call up. But if John had ever done anything of any worth for Jack, if he’d ever showed his appreciation for him in any way, it would be this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John Stones get through a chapter without crying challenge x
> 
> Of course Barkley was going to pop up along the way somewhere, had to set him up as a character before his move to Villa, cue John's tears at that as per usual proceedings. And speaking of Barkley fuck Southgate and his no Stones no Barkley agenda, I'm pretending it's not a thing, they're getting called up for the purposes of this story. Nothing better than drama at St George's Park. x


	21. olympiacos at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mammoth chapter which I apologise for but please bear with it & enjoy x

They were a few weeks into the new season when the transfer window finally shut. Even despite Pep’s promise to John he felt all that much better for the fact it was over, as if he’d been in some sort of reality tv elimination and had lived to fight on to the next round. 

He’d been told Spurs had made a weirdly random last-ditch attempt for him, but before he could even get a word in or begin to consider it City had told them to jog on - John was theirs. 

“That’s not bad, eh?” Kyle remarked when John had told him. “You’ve been wanted by Guardiola and Mourinho. Two of the best to ever do it.” 

“You’ve really put it into perspective for me there Walks. Can’t wait to reflect on my career and say, I was falling apart by twenty-six, but at least Mourinho wanted to buy me.”

He was only being cynical. It counted for something that he was wanted, and it meant even more that City had wanted to keep him. He wasn’t doubtful of the potential missed opportunity at all. He couldn’t find the time, because all of his emotion - primarily rage - was directed elsewhere.

Out of nowhere Barkley had sealed a loan move to Aston Villa on the last day of the window.

John wasn’t having it. Where’d that come from? There’d been no reports, no rumours, no nothing. Why’d he done it? He’d acted as if he couldn’t stand Grealish, had gone so far as to hurl unprovoked abuse at him on his holiday, and Jack had signed a brand-spanking new contract with the club only a week earlier. The captain wasn’t going anywhere.

If John’s pride wasn’t so hurt by how adamant he’d been that their relationship was destined to fail when the two of them moved to clubs at opposite ends of the country he’d be overwhelmed with pride for Jack. It wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong about something, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was too late to go back on his words and make up for it now.

One thing he hadn’t been wrong about was how Jack would be unstoppable in the national team. He’d grasped the opportunity with both hands, running the show at Wembley as if it was his playground, metaphorically sticking two fingers up at Southgate in style. John watched from the safety of his sofa as Jack delivered a faultless performance, providing an assist and earning himself the well-deserved title of man of the match. Villa then went on an unbelievable winning streak, shooting to the top of the table after the first few fixtures. Did anyone need to ask who was pulling the strings?

Everyone was tuning into the fact Grealish was something special. There was nothing John wanted more than to be able to waltz into training after Pep gave Jack another glimmering review in a presser, pleased as punch that he’d bagged him for himself. Your girlfriend flogs diet supplements on Instagram and my boyfriend scores worldies for fun, he would tease in the showers. And then to go home and find Jack waiting for him, all attentive and needy and gagging for it and no-one’s but his - there was nothing John wanted more. 

Strangely though, he found himself at peace with the idea of watching Jack from a distance. He was still his biggest fan, still bursting at the seams with pride for him, only now he couldn’t interfere in that, couldn’t fuck it all up for the both of them. It allowed him to work on himself, to focus on his own objectives, to get a start every week and generally become a more enjoyable person for his teammates to be around.

Barkley had said bollocks to that and thrown a spanner in the works. 

What really rubbed salt in the wound was the fact that John and Ross had been face to face a few weeks ago at that wedding. He’d said fuck all about a move and instead chose to act like he was happy at Chelsea. It prompted John to believe he’d kept it quiet on purpose. 

John knew that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. 

As much as he wanted to see the good in everyone, he couldn’t bring himself to trust Ross. Aside from the revelations concerning Chilwell that had rolled off Ross’ tongue so easily there wasn’t much else John could remember from their intoxicated conversation. In his own drunken stupor there had however been something he’d said that especially resonated with him now. 

‘I’ll make an effort to stay in your good books, and I’ll try to keep you in mine.’ 

It was his own version of keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Hardly profound, and John would never think of himself that way in the first place, but lately he’d learned to ignore the paranoia that bred in the stretches of his imagination and trust himself more. So a few days after the news of Ross’ transfer he decided to call and offer his congratulations.

“How’re you getting on with Jack?” he asked once they’d settled into the conversation, anxious it would seem strange if he chose to ignore it altogether. “All forgiven, I take it?”

“Yeah, he’s a sound lad actually, Stonesy. Got a great sense of humour on him, doesn’t he? Get along with him right well.”

His insides were burning with fury, but John put on a brave face, humming a laugh through gritted teeth. “Trust you to be best mates with someone after you tried to knock ten bells out of each other.”

“That’s not jealousy I’m hearing, is it?” 

“Na. That ship’s sailed,” he lied, hoping Ross was in one of his switched-off moods where he wouldn’t notice the waver in John’s voice. “But really mate, I’m chuffed for you. All the best with the season.”

“Same to you Stonesy. Maybe we’ll be seeing each other at St George’s soon.”

The very idea made John’s skin crawl. 

“Let’s hope so.”

They’d only just got back into the swing of club football when the October international break once again interrupted proceedings. Neither John nor Ross had been called up, but Jack had kept his spot, and rightly fucking so. 

John decided the silver lining he’d make of the situation was how the break would separate Ross and Jack for a while. He’d deleted Instagram weeks ago, all social media in fact, but that didn’t mean he was none the wiser to the arse-licking the two Villa players had been doing so publicly, especially after they’d thrashed Liverpool. 

So Ross (probably) wasn’t giving Jack a good-seeing to, but that wasn’t the point. It was the thought of someone else being so close to him, by his side all week long, there for the highs and the lows in the way that John wished he could be. The whole situation was bizarre, had mashed John’s head to a point where he struggled to focus on much else, and to be quite honest, none of it was making any sense to him. 

-

“You watching this crap?”

“Has Southgate always been this shite?”

“Yeah,” Dele mused. “Think he has, actually.”

The call had come out of nowhere, but it had been welcome. John had been slumped in bed under his duvet, eyelids growing heavier by the second, when Dele’s call ID had flashed up on his phone screen. He’d had the England Denmark game on for a bit of background noise while he did a new mental exercise that had been prescribed to him by Callum. 

First, John had to remind himself of all the things he knew for certain. He kept that part simple; he was John Stones, he was twenty-six, and he played for Manchester City. He then had to move on to things that were likely, keeping it positive. So far all he’d come up with was that he was a decent footballer when he set his mind to it, or when he wasn’t rolled over in agony from a hamstring strain.

The final part scared him slightly. He was meant to acknowledge things that weren’t true, but felt it. His imagination really ran wild here. So far he’d told himself he was thick, irritating, and horrifically unattractive. What was it Barkley had called him? A shoelace? It made a change from the usual pencil comparison. 

He didn’t even need to pull the thesaurus out to find more ways to describe himself. Useless, difficult, rude, unloveable - all words that sprang to mind. He could do this all night.

Callum hadn’t exactly specified the aim of the exercise, but John figured it was to recognise that your brain automatically assumes the worst, when really, your reality is probably a lot better than it seems. It would maybe take a few more attempts before it worked for John.

Thank fuck Dele had distracted him by calling completely out of the blue.

“We’ve played awful ever since last summer. Saying that, I wouldn’t mind a call-up.”

Dele and John were in the same boat. Both were lauded at the World Cup, had become seemingly integral parts of Southgate’s squad, and then were dropped by both club and country after reoccurring injuries. They’d never quite clawed their ways back, and had had to suffer through watching lads that weren’t even half they players they were take their spots. 

“You spoken to Southgate at all?” John asked.

“Yeah. Just gave me some rubbish about needing to play more, be injured less. Like I can fucking control those things.”

“That’s exactly what I got too,” John huffed. “See Eric’s been called up, though?”

Dele laughed sharply. “Of course Eric’s been called up. Everyone loves Eric.” 

John had always found it difficult to tell when Dele was being sarcastic, but there was no missing it this time. 

“You went on holiday without him, didn’t you? What’s going on with you two?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

John groaned sluggishly, in no mood for prancing around the subject. “Don’t drag it out Delboy.”

There was silence at Dele’s end. A sinking feeling began to consume John. Puzzled, he opened his mouth to ask if Dele was still there, but he was cut off by what sounded like a hiccup. It took him longer than it should to realise that a hiccup was just wishful thinking. It had been a sob, a cry of despair, and it had come straight from Dele’s mouth.

“Del? What’s up?”

“It’s fucking awful, John.”

“What is? What’s wrong, Del?” 

Another sob escaped Dele’s throat and John began to panic, shooting up straight in his bed.

“Shit, Del, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

“Give me another minute, ‘cause I’m about to ask you about Jack, and then we’ll both be crying down the fucking phone.”

He wouldn’t be wrong.

John inhaled a shaky breath and tried to relax back against the headboard. In his mind Dele wasn’t a crier; maybe when he was extremely frustrated the anger might prompt it, and after they’d lost to Croatia his eyes had watered, but every single one of them had shed a tear that night. That was why it disturbed John so much now, to hear him choke on his tears, to feel helpless as they sat a hundred miles apart in different cities.

“Come on then Del. Tell me what’s happened.”

“We’ve been found out, John.”

“Found out?” he murmured. “What’d you mean?”

By the time Dele finished with his story John felt so sick it was as if he’d had his internal organs rearranged. 

As Dele told it, his current predicament had begun with his house being broken into towards the end of lockdown. John vaguely remembered Jack telling him about it one morning back in summer. There’d been some flack from the press about the fact Dele’d had Eric round at the time which meant he’d broken lockdown rules, but the criticism had faded as quickly as it had been generated in the way it usually did with general tabloid bilge.

Except something much more sinister had started. One of the papers had developed a hunch that Dele and Eric were in fact living together, sleeping together, and everything inbetween. They’d gone so far as to hire someone to follow the pair of them around for weeks on end, and they’d had no fucking clue. Dele seemed to think everything had been documented - times and dates of them going to and from each other’s houses, pictures of them in one another’s cars, shopping together, walking the dogs, holding hands, and the ultimate sin; kissing.

“There’s pictures of us through the window in my bedroom, John. They’ve got pictures of us fucking necking. You can’t deny that.”

And it turned out Dele only knew this because by some twist of fate an individual working for the paper had felt so guilty that they’d contacted Eric’s publicist before the story could run. Dele and Eric had lawyered up, finding out in the process that their relationship was planned as some giant expose, front-page-worthy news that would no doubt infiltrate the rest of the country’s media for weeks on end.

The first gay prem players. At a top six London club, no less. Home-grown English lads, national team regulars. There was no stretch of the imagination that could comprehend the coverage it would get. This was exactly what John had been so terrified of for so long.

“We said we’d sue them for all they have if anything came out. They said fine, they’d drop everything they already had, but anything new they got on us they’d make sure it was done legally, and then there’d be no stopping them. But it’s all legal loopholes and that, John. Everyone who works for the paper knows, and they won’t keep their mouths shut. They’ll find a way.”

“Fucking hell,” was all John could articulate. 

“We’ve been living apart for so long now. So long. I see Eric in training and that’s it. He’s too scared to come near me, to even fucking look at me. We’re terrified our phones are tapped. This is my second this month. That’s why I’m playing so shit John, that’s why I can’t do anything. We’d been so careful, and it was all for nothing.”

“Who knows, Del? Does your… does your club know?”

“Yep. Levy and Mourinho.”

“Seriously?”

“Southgate too.”

John felt as if he was having the life drained from him. “Southgate knows?”

“It’s not even my choice to stay away from Eric,” Dele seethed. His initial sadness had passed and he was enraged now, really spitting and slurring as he rushed through his words. “But they couldn’t bear to see it all come out, could they? No, two gay players would be too much to handle. They had so many meetings where we had to sit there like nodding dogs. That’s why they released a fake letter to the press, to test the waters, to find out what the public thought. Well fuck it, I don’t give—” 

“Hang on - did you— did you just say… fake letter?”

“Just some bullshit that got printed in the Sun before the end of the season. We got consulted on it and we said no, it was the most stupid thing we’d ever seen, but they went ahead and—”

Images of how he’d reacted that morning in Brighton flashed behind John’s eyelids. “It was fake?” he whispered, lightheaded. 

“The FA wrote it. The fucking FA, John. Mental health this, support for players that. It’s all a fucking cover-up. They don’t want gay players to be open. It’s too much of a threat. Consider yourself lucky you’ve finished it with Jack. None of it’s worth it anymore.”

John didn’t sleep a wink that night. Not even the highlights from the game, which England had lost one-nil, could send him to sleep. 

He lumbered into training the next morning dosed up on anxiety medication, eyes bruised and bloodied, and had to endure countless jibes about learning to lay off the wine. The only thing that got him through the day was the notion that he didn’t even have it that bad. Dele and Dier were the last people on earth who deserved such a fate, and John couldn’t possibly feel any worse about it.

-

A pint or two in town. An idea proposed by Barkley.

It sounded far from appealing but the next game against Olympiacos wasn’t for another four days and with a second national lockdown imminent it was one of those fuck it, there’s absolutely fuck all else to do vibes.

In what was quite a smart turn on John’s part he’d told Ross he already had plans with Kyle, but if Ross was alright with it, the three of them could make a night of it together. The thinking was that Ross might rein himself in with another person at the table, and in turn John wouldn’t feel so drained after dealing with his presence. 

As expected, it was given the green light and John didn’t need to do much convincing to get Kyle to say yes now he’d moved back in with the mother of his first four kids. He was already frowning away to himself as John drove them to the restaurant they said they’d meet Ross at.

“Why’ve you got a face on, Walks?”

“Why’s Barkley in Manchester?” 

“He said something about picking up a new car.”

“Aren’t the new government rules that you can’t even travel out of your area? And you know we have to have a meal with our drinks by the way, we can’t just keep ordering them. What if someone takes a picture? That’ll look good all over Twitter, won’t it?”

“Did you deliberately wait until you were in the car and five minutes away from the fucking restaurant to make a point of this?”

“I’m just saying, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s thought this through.”

“Didn’t stop you from coming,” John retorted. “You’ve already had a covid-related scandal this year. Must be really desperate to get out the house.”

Kyle made a point of turning his head to silently stare out the window after John had said that.

He struggled to give a fuck as he was in a reckless mood, probably spurred on by the thought of having to hold his own against Ross once they’d all got a few drinks down them. And even worse, the idea of Jack coming up in conversation - which John imagined was something of an inevitability - terrified and thrilled him in equal amounts. 

“Bit random this, isn’t it?” Kyle asked as they pulled up to park. “You and Barkley best mates all of a sudden again? Good timing that, isn’t it, now he just so happens to play with the lad you were shagging?”

John shrugged. He hadn’t even thought about it like that. “He asked. Didn’t question it.”

But now he was questioning it, and he wondered if there was in fact an ulterior motive to Ross’ invitation. He didn’t have much time to think about it mind, because Ross was waiting for them as soon as they rounded the corner to the entrance of the restaurant. 

A streak of hesitation shot through John as he laid eyes on him. 

“Alright, Kyle, John?” he called, mouth wide open as he chewed a piece of gum. “You look like you’d rather not be here, Stonesy.”

Instead of ignoring the waves of concern rippling through him, John registered the feeling and reminded himself to stay on his toes. 

“Just trying to remember if I locked the car.”

“Doubt anyone’d be doing off with your two-year-old Range Rover when my new Rolls’ is sat next to it.” 

Kyle and John shot a look at each other. It was going to be a long night.

It was fairly quiet inside and they were given a booth to the very corner of the car which suited them, hidden behind decorative columns and large leafy green plants where they were left to do their business of slagging off Southgate and taking the piss out of how much he and Lampard were on their knees for Mason Mount. 

Knowing how much quicker cocktails got him pissed meant John wanted one badly. They’d started on pints, and John had asked for a bottle of wine which he intended to have with his food (for the price of a glass you may as well get a bottle, his mam had always said), prompting Ross to sneer and call him posh. Fuck knows what he’d do if John asked for a pornstar. Probably call him a fag, and then tell all his new mates at Villa about how much of a fag he was, too. He wondered if Jack would stand up for him. In the end he supposed it didn’t matter either way.

John didn’t eat much of his food, choosing to bloat his stomach with alcohol instead. At some point he excused himself to the toilet and realised he was so pissed he was struggling to hold himself straight at the urinal. So much for only having a few and being able to drive himself home. 

He stayed in the loos for longer than he meant to, staring at himself in the mirror with disgust inbetween checking his phone, rereading the last messages that Jack had ever sent to him for what must’ve been the thousandth time. 

J | 8th July, 2020  
Please tell me you’re finally coming home tonight  
Missed you way too much   
need you here

When the words all started to blur into one fuzzy dot he drenched his face with water from the tap and told himself to grow the fuck up.

Kyle was nowhere to be seen when he returned to the table. Ross was chatting up a waitress who looked about seventeen, telling her he’d been to Mykonos in summer.

“Where’s Walks?” John asked, cutting through an anecdote he’d already heard about the all-inclusive not having a buffet because of coronavirus.

Ross glared daggers at him when the waitress promptly took the interruption as an excuse to scarper.

“Walker took off.”

“Oh. He say why?”

“His missus wanted him home. Not sure which missus that is, like.”

John made a point of making no reaction. Ross wouldn’t dare say that to Kyle’s face.

“It’s good he’s gone actually, Stonesy, ‘cause I had something I wanted to tell you. A few things.”

Ross just loved souring the mood, didn’t he? “Happy days,” John grumbled, glad he was pissed. “Go on then, make my night.”

“I did some digging for you. Thought I’d try put your mind at ease,” he sounded suspiciously pleased to announce. “So you can move on and that, you know?”

“Sounds brilliant,” John exclaimed, emptying the bottle of wine by pouring himself another glass. When red wine entered his system it had one of two effects on him; horny, or really, really, really fucking sarcastic. He wouldn’t shag Ross if they were the last two people on earth, so sarcasm it was.

“Jack’s seeing Chilwell whenever he gets the chance, John. It’s tough, you know, Birmingham to London, but they seem to be making the most of it.”

John cackled bitterly. There was nothing else he could do. The gall of Ross to declare the information so openly, as if he was doing John a favour, turned his stomach.

“And yeah, he slept with Laura Woods too, but I think that’s well over. Said she was a right minx.”

“Well cheers for that Ross, yeah, ta very much,” John hissed. “That’s cleared my mind completely. Really eased my worries.”

“Don’t be like that about it.”

“Like what?”

“Like a baby, throwing his toys out the buggy,” Ross scowled. “You should hear that and think fuck him, I don’t need him. I’m a good-looking lad, I can go shag whoever I want, whenever I want. You don’t need him.”

“But I want him,” John whined, cheeks flushing red as he realised the gravity of the words that had slipped past his lips. 

“Well I hate to tell you this, John, but he doesn’t want you. He told me himself.”

He couldn’t find it in himself to be sarcastic any longer. The guise dropped, revealing the shaky, horrified core he’d been hiding within himself. 

“What did he say?”

“Bottom line is he wanted you gone, John. Yeah, he was telling me he kind of got lucky you cleared out when you did, ‘cause it was… it was all getting a bit much for him, if I’m honest, mate.” 

“What was getting too much for him?”

“Well… you overthink a lot, don’t you? That’s what he said, anyway. Said you were needy, even had strops, sometimes.”

None of that sounded like something Jack would say. “I didn’t have any strops.” At least he didn’t think he had. “No… I know for a fact I didn’t.”

“Not strops, exactly, but— what are they called? Panic attacks? That sort of thing. You… struggling with your head.”

“I never had any panic attacks around him.”

“Well that’s what he said.”

“None of that was a problem when I was living with him.”

“Listen, don’t shoot the messenger.” 

“I just don’t believe it.”

“Would you believe it if I told you he couldn’t fucking stand how clingy you got?” Ross scoffed, pounding his fists down on the table. “That you felt like a burden to him? Hanging over his shoulders like a black fucking cloud?”

Those words made John feel nothing. Just numb. Completely numb. 

“No,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “No, he’d never— he wouldn’t say—”

“This is all straight from the horse’s mouth. It’s not like I wanted to tell you any of that, John, but if I was in your shoes, I’d wanna know what someone had been saying about me,” Ross declared, desperate to break him down. “Think about it. How else would I know, John? How would I know all of that if he hadn’t told me himself?”

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? 

John made no point of pissing around after that. He downed the last of the wine in his glass, ordered an Uber, and said he was going home. 

“If you kick up a fuss about me going like I know you want to, I’ll cause a scene ten times worse, so just let me get on my way,” he told Ross, throwing two fifty-pound notes down on the table.

“The fuck have I done?”

“Nothing,” he lied. “You know what, though?”

“What?”

“Thanks for being honest with me, Barks.” 

Ross leant back in his seat, stunned as he watched John turn away. 

“That’s what friends are for,” he called after him. 

-

There was no denying John had been getting better in recent weeks. Attending therapy, doing his exercises, staying fit, actually playing games, and playing well (four starts and four clean sheets in the past month, not that he’d gloat about it) was something to be proud of. But when he woke up the morning after his conversation with Barkley there was an unbearable tightness in his chest, one that sent sharp shots of pain round the edges of his ribcage.

Nightmares were an unusual one for him, but he’d seen horrible images as he tossed and turned. He’d dreamt about Dele and Eric, dreamt he’d been sat in the back seat of their car at a crossing in the road, dreamt someone had slammed into the side of them. He’d then dreamt he was on life support in hospital and someone had unplugged all of his wires and switched the machine off. If it was any other time in his life he’d have probably found it all quite funny. 

Except his body had decided to have the opposite reaction. He first noticed that his palms were slick with sweat, then felt the sheen that had settled on the back of his neck. Was it wrong to pray that this was coronavirus, and not what he thought it was? The tightness in his chest was getting worse, forcing his breaths to come shorter and sharper, rushed and panicked.

The first person he called when he finally recovered from his episode was Callum.

“I can’t believe it’s happened again,” he sighed, eyes clenched shut. “Thought I’d got over this.”

“These things don’t happen overnight, John.” 

“I’m meant to be playing against Olympiacos. What if I have another attack? What if I start having them all the time like I used to?”

“Then you pick yourself up again like you always have.”

He wasn’t one for fickle words, but John took Callum’s advice. He poured his heart and soul into the game, playing the full ninety. He’d been in an abhorrent mood from the moment Barkley told him those awful things Jack had said, and everyone around him was more than aware of it, but the ruthlessness and determination he injected into his performance was enough to keep any questions at bay for the time being.

They won three-nil, not one mistake made or a single foot put wrong, and John was pleased to see Gabi mark his return with a goal.

The result meant John wasn’t particularly surprised at full-time when Pep slung a strong arm around his shoulders as they made their way up through the tunnel to the dressing room.

“Perfect, John.”

“Ah, cheers, Pep,” he nodded, eyes set on the floor.

“I’ve got some good news.”

John raised his head. “Yeah?”

“Well, good for you, yes,” Pep muttered, “good for me, no.”

This wasn’t what John thought it might be, was it?

“Not good for you? How come?” 

“You’re going for international break.”

John stopped in his tracks, stopping Pep with him. His stomach sunk like a fucking stone.

“I’ve been… I’ve been called up?”

“Yes, full announcement tomorrow morning.” He paused for a moment to take in the stricken expression on John’s face. “You look just like I looked when Gareth told me. He takes you, Kyle, Raheem, Phil… he takes the most from me of everybody. But I should be proud, yes? It’s a fucking curse when you all go and play friendlies and come back injured.”

John thought he’d be lucky to come back with nothing but a broken fucking leg. His main concern was how much his heart could take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all your love in the comments, especially on the last chapter, can't even explain how much it makes writing this worth it when I can read what you think. 
> 
> I'm about to get mad busy with uni/work/xmas/general life but I do hope to have the story finished by part 25. How long it takes me to write we'll have to see but there is a light at the end of the tunnel haha X


	22. liverpool at home, again

John had been called up. He’d actually been called up. He never thought he’d see the day again.

It might’ve felt like a redeeming moment for him if alongside his name on the list there hadn’t also been three other names that filled him with deep, deep dread. Those were, of course, in alphabetical order no less, Ross Barkley, Ben Chilwell, and Jack Grealish.

It was the universe’s punishment for him, wasn’t it? He couldn’t have nice things, not without a heap of pure humiliation served on the side. Whoever he’d been in a past life, whatever that person had done, John was convinced he was getting punished for it now.

More than anything he was grateful he wouldn’t have to go it alone. Kyle and Raz would be by his side at St George’s Park, and while Kev was off on his own to Belgium, the two international sides would be facing each other - but not before City saw out Liverpool at the Etihad. 

John was grateful he would be on the bench. This was the third season in a row that their very last fixture before the November international break was the one against Liverpool, and John had started both times previous, both times ending near enough in disaster. The day after he’d had to walk into St George’s park, stoked up with worry that his inability to defend was on everyone’s lips, or at least in the back of everyone’s mind. 

It didn’t help to recall the fact that this time last year tensions had been so high that Raheem had lunged on Joe Gomez an hour or so into the break. John didn’t even dare to think how frosty the atmosphere might be this time around. Adding an ex and a one night stand into the equation - a one night stand that just so happened to be shagging the ex - wouldn’t bode well for anybody.

John, Kev and Kyle stayed out on the training pitch for a while longer than the rest of the team in their last session before the Liverpool game, playing two-touch like they were in the playground again and seeing who could hit the crossbar first. For once John wished there was cameras around to document it when he achieved the feat before the almighty Kevin De Bruyne did. It was sheer luck, of course.

He’d told both Kev and Kyle what Barkley had said, and had told Raheem too. Well, he hadn’t told them everything. Not the part about Jack calling him clingy, calling him a burden - he’d left that part out out of shame. But they knew about Chilwell and Laura Woods, and they could tell how much it had hurt his pride. But instead of wrapping him in cotton wool and tiptoeing around the subject they made it known they were there for him, pinching his sides and ruffling his hair to give him some of that physical contact he’d been missing of late even if he hadn't realised it.

John wanted to tell them how much he appreciated them, how they’d really lifted his spirits, but he thought he’d better get through international break in one piece first. He’d always had a bad habit of speaking too soon.

When they eventually headed in to the changing rooms the majority of the lads had already cleared off. John was pleased to see that Raheem was only just emerging from the shower, engrossed in his phone, which gave Kyle the perfect opportunity to whack a wet towel over his head.

“Look at you,” Raheem tutted. “The oldest here and still acting like you’re in preschool.”

They got on to talking about international break as they changed, Kev turning into tour guide as he explained exactly what the stadium they’d be facing one another in was like, dotting his own memories of his time at Genk in here and there.

“I for one can’t wait to play against you,” he declared. “Three at the back with Kyle Walker, John Stones, and Harry Maguire? That’ll be fun.”

“It’s weird, innit, how we’ve got so much quality going forward, but we’re so shit at the back.”

Kyle looked far from pleased. “Speak for yourself, John.” 

“I suppose you’ve got Kane, Raheem, Rashford, Sancho, even Phil,” Kevin mused. “Could do with someone better in the middle.”

“Phil can play there,” Raheem shrugged. 

“Well it’ll be Barkley and Grealish this time, won’t it?” Kyle asked, not really looking for an answer. 

He wasn’t getting one either way, as the conversation promptly came to a halt. 

“I’m not gonna burst into tears at the mention of his name,” John groaned. “I’ve gotta be around him in two days time, for God’s sake.”

Raheem glanced up in the middle of lacing his trainers. “Na, but for real John, what are you gonna do when you actually see him again? Like, face to face, in person? It’ll be the first time since you… you know, you kinda just… dumped him.”

“Dumped him? I didn’t dump him.”

“But he didn’t exactly sack you off either, did he? You’re the one that cleared out your stuff and posted your key back through the letterbox. You’re the one that left.”

Kyle was never letting him live that one down, was he?

“Only after he left the house first,” John snapped. “Listen, it doesn’t matter who dumped who, ‘cause we were never actually together in the first place.”

No one believed that - John least of all - but the tutting and eye-rolling from his teammates still wasn’t appreciated.

“You weren’t just linking, though. You were like, mad in love with him. And judging by the way his head perked up whenever me or Kyle mentioned your name on the last break, he clearly still cares about you.”

“Back to your original question Raheem,” John sighed, trying his hardest to ignore what had just been said, “people who work together shag each other all the time. I’ll just act like you would in any other job. Be professional about it, keep it civil, say a hello, and leave it at that.”

“Act like nothing ever happened.”

John clicked his fingers and pointed at the Belgian. “Exactly, Kev.”

Kyle folded his arms and stared at John down the length of his nose. “Tenner he starts crying within the first hour of seeing Grealish.”

“Eh, I don’t think it’ll be until the next day,” Kevin leveraged. “Make it fifty and you’ve got yourself a bet.”

“Done,” Kyle declared, reaching out his hand to seal the deal.

John watched on unimpressed, but if he had to back either of them it’d be Kev.

One thing he learned you couldn’t back Kev on was his ability to take a pen, which was something John thought would never cross his mind. With the score at one-one they’d been awarded a penalty. John was warming up on the sideline, a position which provided him with the perfect view to witness Kev’s strike go wide at the left post.

City missing a crucial penalty against Liverpool in the final fixture before the last international break of the year? John could’ve sworn he was having deja-vu. 

Kevin was kicking himself over it, especially when things settled in the second half and both teams were content playing for the point, but no one was particularly disappointed with the result, not even Pep. That was a victory in itself. They were five points behind Liverpool with a game in hand - they’d come back from bigger deficits before.

There was no need for John to shower as a result of him being confined to the bench and the touchline, so in the wake of Pep’s comments and a warning that they better hadn’t come back with so much as a scratch on them from international duty, he grabbed his keys and headed to leave.

“Off so soon?” Kev called before John could reach the exit. 

“May as well. Need an early night before I go down to London in the morning.”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact Villa kick-off against Arsenal in about…” He paused and searched for the clock on the wall, a smile appearing on his face once he realised his hunch made sense. “In exactly twenty minutes, huh? Which is probably how long it will take for you to get home.”

John hadn’t exactly made a conscious decision to leave early because of the game, but he’d been more than aware it was on.

“I don’t want any smart comments like that when we play you next Sunday, alright?”

“Don’t worry,” Kev said, grinning. “Send me a text when you settle in, let me know how it goes.”

John gave him a parting hug and told him he’d keep him updated. Sack a text - there’d probably be a frantic voicemail filled with tears and cries of ‘I want to go home’ sent within twenty-four hours. At least Kevin would win the bet he’d made with Walks. Fifty quid out of Kyle’s pocket? John might just force a crocodile tear or two on purpose.

-

“I’m not coming.”

“Stop whining,” said the voice at the other end of the phone.

“I’m not even out of bed yet.”

“You’ve got loads of time. Stop being so wet.”

“I’m not kidding Raz.”

“This is why I told them we’d get a lift together. I knew you’d sketch as soon as you woke up. I’ll drag you into the taxi myself.”

“I don’t bloody think so. I’ve got about a whole foot on you.”

“I’m stronger than you, bro.”

There was no arguing with that.

John had managed to get two hours sleep. The combination of exhaustion, paranoia, grumpiness, and panic he was feeling was foul, and he knew he couldn’t afford to turn up for international duty like this. 

He might’ve been alright if last night he hadn’t subjected himself to the torture that was watching Barkley and Jack frolic around at the Emirates in the pouring down rain, pinging balls into the box to register an assist each before celebrating with their arms wrapped tightly around one another.

Jack had run the show. Images of him playing had been stuck behind John’s eyelids as he’d pleaded with himself to go to sleep. They’d worn their all-black away kit which looked spectacular in the mist and rain, the soaked fabric clinging to the contours of Jack’s body. The broad-shoulders, slim waist, thighs and calves were all on show, teasing John cruelly. He’d had to turn the tv off when he noticed Jack’s nipples showing through his shirt. He couldn’t be having such explicit thoughts about someone who didn’t want him, someone he had to face in the flesh just the day after.

“I’m getting picked up in forty minutes, and then we’re coming straight to yours, so you’ve got about an hour to get ready,” Raheem told him. “You packed?”

John glanced at the suitcase by the bedroom door, zipped-up and ready to go. He knew if he’d left it until the morning there’d have been no chance he’d leave the house.

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Good. I’ll see you in an hour.”

On top of the hour he’d given John to get himself out of bed, Raheem was an extra hour late. He blamed it on the driver, but John knew Raz’s track record and it’d suggest otherwise. 

The extra hour he’d spent waiting around had given him an extra hour to think. He’d begun to wonder how he’d fit back into the squad, what kind of a welcome he’d receive. He would be one of the most senior lads there; of the current squad only Hendo, Kane, Kyle, Raz and Ross had been capped before him. 

He’d made his senior debut in May 2014, two days after his twentieth birthday. That felt like a lifetime ago, and now his seniority meant nothing. He’d had a whole year out of the squad and with the pandemic it felt even longer. There were new lads to consider, Mings and Coady and all the bright young sparks.

The thought of coming across as a bit of a wanker wasn’t lost on him. His face didn’t fall in the happiest expression, and as of the current moment he may have appeared a little dead behind the eyes, he was blunt and sarcastic at the best of times, and it would all only get worse when he was in the presence of Barkley and Chilwell. At some point in time he’d been amusing, outgoing, even, especially when the honour came to play for England. God, how boring might he seem now? In John’s book there weren’t many things worse than being boring.

Halfway through the ride down to London John cleared his throat, prompting Raheem to glance up from his phone.

“Am I boring?”

“Here we go. No, John. Just stop thinking, for like, a minute,” Raheem scolded, staring straight ahead at the road in front of them through the windscreen. “It’s like I can hear you fucking thinking.”

“Be honest, Raz. D’you not think I’ve been a bit boring lately?”

“You’re not boring. You’re just… upset.”

“I’m not upset. And even if I was, people who don’t know I’m upset might just think I’m boring.”

“Yeah, they probably will.” If there was one thing you could count on Raz for, it was brutal honesty. “But you’re not boring. Worrying about shit is stopping you from being your usual self, and it’s even more obvious, ‘cause your usual self is like, goofy as fuck.”

John cringed a bit. “Not sure what I’d rather be. Boring, or goofy.”

“Either’s better than that dickhead act you used to put on when we went out,” he mumbled. 

“Yeah, fair enough. Think I’ve grown out of that.”

Raheem rested his head against the window and looked at John through his long eyelashes. “I was wondering, like… how did you act with Grealish? ‘Cause I can picture you, like, being a dick. Trying to act hard so you’d impress him.”

“Couldn’t be further from the truth,” John laughed, feeling a weird sense of calm rather than any negative emotion. “I was soft as fuck around him. Maybe a bit too soft in the end, though.”

“Na, vulnerability’s good in a relationship. If you can’t be your most vulnerable around your partner something isn’t right.”

“That one of Paige’s lines?”

“Yeah, but I use it ‘cause it’s true,” he shrugged, flashing one of his million dollar smiles. “I do think you should talk to him though, John.”

“He doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

“So don’t beat yourself up over it, bro. As long as you knew you tried all you could, that’s all you can do.”

He found himself agreeing with Raheem, but it also forced him to realise he hadn’t tried at all. 

Arriving to St George’s Park with someone by his side allowed him to keep his head above water. Even with the coronavirus restrictions it was weirdly easy to settle back into a routine, dropping off boots and collecting keys coming as second nature. 

As much as he tried to distract himself, one question was always in the back of his mind, and a niggling feeling was worming away in the pit of his stomach. He found himself able to breathe again when he laid eyes on Kyle, who was waiting for the lift to take him up to his room.

Kyle spotted John approaching from the corner of his eye. “Alright, John? You and Raz get down okay?” 

“Is Jack here?” 

Kyle looked as if he wanted to throttle him. “I swear to god, if you’re like this for a whole fortnight—“

“No, no, I promise I won’t be. I’m sorry.” He straightened himself out and put on as happy a face as he could muster. “Our drive was fine. Yours?”

Kyle could see right through him. It wasn’t difficult considering he was practically bouncing on his toes, eyes darting side to side, body flinching when the hum of the lift startled him as it neared the ground floor.

“The answer is no,” Kyle said resignedly. “Grealish isn’t here yet. They’re coming later on tonight, the lads from Arsenal and Villa.”

John nodded to show he appreciated the information, and without words, they both agreed that would be the last of it for now.

The decent thing about St George’s was the individual rooms. He and Kyle together in a hotel room had presented its fair share of disasters of late. But thanks to Gundo constantly testing positive for coronavirus John had been able to take the absent German’s place in Kev’s room whenever City travelled, which Kyle didn’t mind, as it meant he could snore away to himself in peace.

It wouldn’t be troubling John this break either, as they couldn’t physically be further apart. John was two floors up from Kyle, his room tucked in at the end of the corridor across from the fire escape. He tried not to ponder on how coincidental or symbolic that might be.

He plunged his keycard in and out of the door, hurried himself into his room, threw his suitcase to the side and reminded himself to breathe steady. So far, so good. 

He’d already showered that morning but decided to do so again, feeling a bit groggy from all the fidgeting he’d done in the car on the way down. For the first time since the start of lockdown he’d been to the barbers, and though he’d forgotten what he looked like with it so short, he couldn’t deny the skin fade had done him wonders. His face was no longer hidden by the mound of curls over his forehead, and his eyes seemed wider, brighter. No-one else had noticed, but he supposed that was the price you paid when ninety percent of the people around you were straight lads.

The notion that it was only a matter of hours before he and Jack saw one another again was surreal. He’d been trying not to think about it, of course he had, but it was constantly chipping away in the back of his mind. There was no indication as to how Jack would react, and the uncertainty was what worried him the most.

As much as John had tried and tried to convince himself it was over between them for his own peace of mind he knew it wasn’t finished. The immature and rushed argument they’d had back in July before they’d both gone their separate ways without so much as an explanation wasn’t the end. Four months had passed and John had never wanted him more. That wasn’t the way things were meant to be when your ex was shagging someone you’d shagged too, was it?

He was stretched out on the mattress and deep in his feelings when his phone buzzed beneath him.

Raz | 5:29pm  
Where you at  
You can’t spend the whole break in your room  
Going for dinner now I better see you down here

With a groan John rolled off the bed and slipped on his trainers. 

By the time he got downstairs his palms were slick with sweat, prompting him to pull the lengths of his sleeves down over the back of his hands. As expected Kyle and Raheem were milling about, smiling away as they caught up with Eric and Harry. 

The scene before him was just another reminder that yet again Dele hadn’t received a call-up. It didn’t feel right without him. John knew he was hung up on the events of their shared World Cup summer and always would be, but to go from being with those lads for almost every minute of every day through what would probably be both the most glorious and traumatic experience of their lives to seeing each other twice a year if they were lucky felt wrong.

As he approached Eric he wondered whether he should he should let on that he knew about the shite situation he and Dele were in. He decided against it. 

“Stonesy. It’s good to see you,” Eric smiled, pulling him in for a hug.

John found it weird just how much he wanted to stay there in Eric’s arms. 

They made all the appropriate small talk in their group; how are you, still not got rid of that lockdown weight have you, how’s the missus, the kids. John could see a sadness behind Eric’s eyes, but it was one of those things he’d be able to dismiss easily if asked about it, as stoic as he naturally was. Saying that, John figured Harry must’ve been in on it, with the way he was hovering around Eric like he was too scared to let him off the leash, the slightest mention of Dele’s absence a spark that could set him off.

The room soon filled with more bodies. There were faces John hadn’t seen in a long time, and some he’d never had so much as had a conversation with. Chilwell walked in with Reece James, who John had never met, so thankfully had no obligation to greet. Pickford strode in at the same time and upon losing all rationality he’d ever had John made a beeline straight for him.

“Ha, Stonesy!” Jordan grinned as they clapped one another on the back. “Where’ve you been? Thought you’d died or something.”

“Bit far, Jord,” a voice from the side remarked. 

John glanced across to see Calvert-Lewin. He was smirking as he fiddled with the curls hanging over his forehead, the locks framing his dark eyes. They shook hands just as they would with anyone else, but John felt an unspoken sort of affiliation to him. It was maybe because they’d both been at Everton, and they’d both grown up about five miles apart from one another, but were yet to formally meet. 

“Your hair looks good mate,” Dominic said, casual as fuck. “Just had it cut?”

“Yeah- yeah, I have, actually,” John stammered. “And I know it sounds like I’m just saying it ‘cause you’ve just said it to us, but yours is smart too, mate. You suit it long.”

“Ooh, hair friends,” Jordan mocked childishly. 

“Get out of here with your shit trim,” John scowled, to which Dom laughed approvingly. If anything was going to feel normal about being back with England, it’d be the bickering he’d do with the keeper.

Dinner was pushed back to six as Gareth was running late and wanted to address his squad first before they ate. John hadn’t had anything since the morning so thought he’d have a brew to tide him over, or at least to give him something to do as he tried to avoid coming into the path of Chilwell.

He headed towards the makeshift tea and coffee station on the far side of the room, thankful there were mugs for once rather than the tiny plastic fucking cups they’d used in days of old. 

If there was one thing that could calm John down, any particular task, it’d be making a brew. There was a uniformity to it, such a simple method, that it had become one of those things that made his hands stop shaking no matter how anxious his brain wanted him to think he was. But it didn’t take long for his momentary peace to be disturbed. 

“Stonesy.”

A chill ran through John as a figure appeared at his side. He didn’t need to look to know who it was; that particular Scouse accent was unmistakable.

John managed to hold it together, raising his fist to meet Ross’ in the new form of covid-safe greeting.

“Alright Barks,” he murmured. “How’s it going?”

“Sound, mate.” Instead of asking how John was in return, he glanced over his shoulder and called out across the room. “Jack? I’m making a coffee, d’you want one?” 

John couldn’t help himself. So much as the mention of his name, the notion that he might be in the same room as him, made him drop all self-restraint and do the one thing he’d warned himself not to do. He looked over at Jack.

It was the worst possible moment to do so. Jack was staring right back at him, body stilled, lips parted as he drew in breath. 

He looked fucking gorgeous. Clothed head to toe in his navy England tracksuit, John instantly noticed how his skin was paler than it had been the last time they’d seen one another, how there were fewer freckles decorating the peaks and troughs of the wonder that was his face. They were in the same room together, actually within touching distance, and yet he looked like a mirage to John, like a hallucination.

But it was clear he wasn’t. Heads had raised - Kyle and Raz’s, Eric and Harry’s, Ross’. All wondering why Jack hadn’t offered a reply to Ross’ question yet. All intruding on a moment John had been so desperate for for so long. 

It didn’t matter what came next. There was nothing John could do but turn back around and resume brewing his tea. 

A moment later he heard Jack clear his throat. “A brew would do Ross, ta.”

The words made John feel as if sparks of electric were being shot through his body. How he’d missed that voice. Would’ve been nicer had he been saying any name other than Barkley’s, but he’d take all he could get. 

He stayed silent as he squeezed his teabag against the side of the mug, straining it until the liquid turned black and the bag was dry. Ross shifted around beside him, clumsily reaching over him without a care in order to reach two mugs that he went straight to filling with boiling water.

“D’you remember that lass I brought to that wedding a couple of months back?”

John glared at Ross, unable to hide his distaste for the man. “Neon dress, and you barely spoke to her all evening?”

“That’s the one,” he nodded. “Anyway, was speaking to her the other night, and she said she’d seen a video of you or summat. Wants a bit of you, I reckon. Want her number?”

“Why the fuck would I want her number?” 

“She was good for the rest of the night, if you know what I mean.”

“You make her sound like a fucking prostitute.”

Ross stared back at him blankly.

“Was… was she a prostitute?” 

“Who the fuck do you think I am?” Ross spat, turning on his heels.

John didn’t know what was more offensive; Ross’ random suggestion, or the fact he’d seemed to make the worst cup of tea John had ever witnessed in his life.

Jack didn’t like his tea strong, but the cup Ross was about to hand to him was rushed, had hardly been brewed, with nothing but a careless dash of milk thrown in without so much as a stir. Not only was it a crime in itself, but the fact he’d given so little care to someone else’s brew - to Jack’s brew - was astounding. 

John finished making his own drink just in time to turn around and see Ross pass Jack the mug of poorly made tea. He was certain he saw a flash of disappointment cross Jack’s face when he took in the colour of it. Worst of all, John couldn’t even bring himself to feel smug about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel like this reunion was a lot more anticlimatic than anyone would expected... hope you've had a great week x


	23. ireland at home

Things were tense. There was the sense that most of the lads were oblivious to it, couldn’t tell the difference between a competitive tackle and an actual desire to snap a certain someone’s ankles when they saw John sliding in on Barkley in training, but it wouldn’t take a genius to spot that the pair weren’t on best terms.

John had survived Monday and Tuesday without tears. That wasn’t to say he was enjoying himself, but he didn’t feel prone to having a bad episode, either. It was draining having his guard up constantly. When he wasn’t treading lightly around Barkley he was trying to be civil with Chilwell, and even when those two were out of the picture, there was always that one other person to think about.

Communication between he and Jack had been inexistent. Jack hadn’t so much as glanced in John’s direction since the first day, and if ever they were forced to be in the same room they’d kept their distance, backs to one another. 

They’d made sure to pick different groups in training, both of them more than aware it would mean an eventual acknowledgement of one another’s existence. Neither wanted to make the first move, or be the first to crack. On the occasions that John couldn’t help himself he’d sneak a look across the pitch only to find Jack joking about with Mount or Chilwell or Tyrone or Ross. It made him sick to his stomach. 

But he’d refused to keep his own head down, or to hide behind Kyle and Raz. He’d really got stuck in to training, where showing his quality against Keaneo, Maguire and Mings had got his blood pumping, especially when he could feel himself emerging head and shoulders. Coady and Gomez were both sent home on the first day after unfortunate injuries, which gave John even more hope he’d get back on the pitch in an England shirt.

He’d forgotten how well he could get on with Pickford, both having an admittedly immature sense of humour when the moment took the pair of them. Dier was another one that John found himself wanting to be around, but catching him at a good time was proving to be difficult. He was going through it with the Dele situation and John couldn’t bring himself to broach the subject. Besides, he got the feeling Eric probably didn’t want him to.

Another lad he’d found himself naturally gravitating to was Calvert-Lewin. He had a charismatic air about him, a coolness, and he was smart in the same sort of way that John was - common sense, with a load of fucking random general knowledge thrown on top. They talked about Sheffield and music and Everton and had even touched on the topic of politics once or twice. It made a change from the typical Fortnite, Mykonos patter that was the extent of most conversation around the camp.

And the bottom line was that Dom was fit, really fucking fit, even if he was the same height as John, which he’d usually find a bit of a turn-off. Shame he was as straight as a fucking pin, not that John was even in the same league as him - well, if they weren’t speaking literally. 

He supposed he had managed to get with Jack, mind. Even if it was obvious that Dom was straight and John would never even try it in the first place, it might do well to rattle Jack if he ever did look over at John during training and see him joking away with the striker.

Raheem had taken to grilling John on the matter at breakfast on Wednesday morning.

“You spoken to Jack yet?” 

John was hunched over his plate, unable to sit up entirely straight without having the man in question in his line of sight. 

“Nope.”

“I don’t know how you’ve kept it up so long,” Raheem huffed. “I honestly thought you’d either make up straight away or have a shouting match.”

“Like I said, he obviously doesn’t wanna talk to me.”

Nothing felt right about the disconnect between them. John was going to sleep and waking up with a unbearably heavy chest, a constant ache weighing him down. It was the last thing he needed.

The thought of doing some innocent damage to Barkley in training that morning soothed him ever so slightly.

He ended up keeping the physical challenges to a minimum though, conscious Southgate was watching closely to inform his final decision on the lineup against Ireland, who they were set to face that evening. It would be nothing more than a glorified training match, a chance to give the new lads a run out and rest the others for Belgium. In the past John would’ve been one of those on the bench for the right reasons, but he was itching to just get out on the pitch and remind everyone of what he could do.

Kyle pinched the back of his neck as they were leaving the training pitch at the end of the session, signalling for him to hang towards the rear of the group as everyone headed for the changing room. 

“Next time you’re gonna two-foot Barkley at least commit to it and take him out, Johnny.”

He allowed himself a little chuckle at that, wondering if anyone else had caught on to how much he’d wanted to knock the Scouser off his feet. “What’s he done to get on the wrong side of you?”

“Nout really,” Kyle shrugged, swinging his arms by his sides. “He’s just a dickhead.”

John scratched at the stubble on his chin and hummed in agreement.

“Forgot how annoying he could be until we went out with him the other week, and now he’s really pecking my head. I’m sorry I left early by the way,” Kyle said, “but he was driving me up the fucking wall.”

“He said you went home ‘cause Annie wanted you back?”

“Well that was my excuse, yeah,” Kyle nodded. “But he wouldn’t stop asking me questions, you know, stupid, nosey questions about you. You were long enough in the loos anyway, weren’t you? Leaving me alone with him was rough. Some mate you are.”

Kyle had been joking, but instinct caused John to reach his hand out and place it on Kyle’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks.

“He was asking questions? What was he asking?”

“Dunno really. Just about you. Wanting to know if there was anything up with you, all that sort of thing,” Kyle replied, not quite understanding how this news was an unsettling revelation to John. “Stuff that seemed a bit private, really. Maybe I slipped up and told him you had panic attacks and that, but that was all I told him, and then I said if he wanted to know anything else he should bloody ask you himself.”

“He asked you about my anxiety attacks?”

A frown deepened on Kyle’s face, matching John’s fraught expression. 

“Well… yeah. Said he had no idea you’d ever had any, seemed really surprised, actually. And then he just kept asking and asking, when do you have them, why do you have them… stuff like that.”

“So what are you saying, Walks?” John asked, stomach twisting. “You’re saying he was… digging, is that what you’re saying?”

Kyle looked at John closely as he thought about it, trying to figure out what this line of questioning might lead to. 

“That’s how it seemed.”

“Digging for stuff about me, my mental health? Digging for exactly that?”

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“And you said he had no idea I’d ever had attacks, had anxiety, all that?”

Kyle sighed and glanced over his shoulder. “Where’s this going, John?” 

“Answer me yes or no, Walks - did he know about my anxiety attacks before you told him?”

“No. I don’t think so, anyway. He told me he didn’t know, and he said that he wouldn’t have guessed, either.”

John dug his heels into the ground and gritted his teeth. It took all restraint in his body to stop him from storming into the dressing room and having it out with Barkley right there and then. 

“That fucking snake,” he cursed. “Knew I couldn’t trust him one bit.”

Kyle was completely lost. “Is there something I’m missing here?”

“He’s been lying this whole fucking time. About everything.”

-

John’s frustration only intensified once he explained the situation to Raheem and Kyle.

Raheem had left training early off the back of complaining about his ankle. He was propped up on a recovery bed by the time John had found him in an otherwise empty gym, waiting to be seen by the physio. John was pacing the room and biting away at his nails frantically, his audience watching on helplessly. No amount of repeating himself seemed to be clearing up the story for them.

“Come on John, calm down a bit mate,” Kyle tutted. “Don’t go psycho on us.” 

“Yeah, anyone could walk in bro,” Raheem advised from the bed. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for it all. You know, not the way you think it is.”

“But don’t you see how it all fucking adds up, Raz?” he exclaimed, wanting to tear his hair out. “I knew something wasn’t right, I knew Jack wouldn’t go around saying that sort of shit about me! He didn’t even know about my anxiety attacks!”

“You know you could’ve just avoided all this in the first place if you’d learned to swallow your pride and communicate.”

It felt like a slap in the face, but John couldn’t help appreciate Raheem’s honesty. Maybe that was exactly what he needed.

“Well that’s what I’m gonna do right now,” he declared, mind made up in an instant. “I’m gonna go ask Barkley what he thinks he’s doing.”

Without another word John tore away from the conversation and headed in the direction of the stairwell. 

“Well fucking go after him, Kyle!” he heard Raheem hiss in the distance. 

If Kyle was following him, he wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping up. John blitzed his way through reception with a face like thunder, reaching the stairwell that would take him to the third floor and up to Ross’ room before he heard Kyle call out behind him.

“John, mate, just hang on for a minute!”

He ignored the plea and took the stairs two at a time, landing speedily with light footsteps thanks to the adrenaline blazing round his system. His outstretched palms shoved open the door to the floor he knew Ross’ room was on, the handle smacking into the wall behind him with a bang. He hoped it might have been loud enough to draw someone out of their room so he could ask which door he should be tearing down to find his target.

Kyle had finally caught up to him, but there was still some gap between them, emphasised by the lengthy corridor. 

“There’s a smarter way to do this, John,” Kyle called after him, trying to keep his voice down. “You don’t even know for certain if he’s been lying!”

Kyle didn’t even know the half of it. 

“John? Are you listening to me?” 

Something caught John’s eye. Outside one of the rooms towards the end of the corridor were a pair of boots, neatly placed right in front of the door. Ross had given himself away. It was one of his silly rituals; on the day of a game he’d put his boots right outside the door of his hotel room. Like all players, it was something that had brought him luck once and subsequently just stuck. It had always seemed like bullshit to John, but right now he couldn’t be more thankful for it.

He strode up to the door and aimed a glance at Kyle as if to tell him to brace himself. 

“Fucking hell, John, just— don’t, alright?” he pleaded. “I get that you’re angry and you want to know what’s going on, but don’t go barging in, throwing your weight around!”

John did exactly what Kyle had told him not to do. 

He didn’t bother to knock, knowing Ross rarely locked the door behind him. The door swung open for him freely and he entered, shutting it behind him with an almighty slam. 

The noise was abrupt enough to draw Ross out of the bathroom. He was clothed in nothing but a white towel slung around his waist, and his hair was dripping wet, skin glowing pink from the heat in the room. John specifically remembered Ross always failed to open a window or put the fan on whenever he had a shower. That was just another thing to add to the reasons why he was such a wanker, but right now there was something worse topping the list.

“What the ever-loving fuck have you been playing at, Barkley?” 

Ross’ expression was slack. “I’ve just been in the shower.”

“No shit Sherlock,” John seethed, “but I think you know that’s not what I meant.”

A dramatic sigh fell from Ross’ lips. With an eye roll and a scoff he began to lumber over to the bed in the centre of the room. He seemed to think about sitting on the edge but apparently decided against it, standing his ground.

“So enlighten me, Stonesy. What are you going to surprise me with today?”

“You lied to me,” John said. “You lied to me about Jack, about him sleeping with Chilwell, about him sleeping with Laura Woods.”

“Well…” he sneered, “I didn’t exactly lie—”

“I’m not fucking finished.”

Ross levelled his gaze at John, large forehead looming over the set of beady eyes that had begun twinkling with amusement. 

“You’ve got a set of bollocks on you, haven’t you? Where’ve they come from?”

“All that stuff you told me the other week about Jack wanting me gone because I’m difficult, because I have anxiety… it was a load of shite. You got it all from Kyle that very night, minutes before he left, and I came back from the loo. You took it from Kyle, you made it into your own story, and you swore that it had all come from Jack. Why?” John asked, throat burning with rage. “Why would you do that?”

“What if I didn’t do that?”

“What?” John scoffed, having no time for games. “I know for a fact you did, so don’t fuck me about, Ross.”

“I didn’t,” he said, kissing his teeth snidely. “I just live rent free in your head. Even if I did, you can’t prove it.”

“Oh, I can’t prove it?” John asked, thankful he’d been given the perfect opportunity to explain himself. “Let’s start with Jack supposedly cheating on me with Laura Woods, alright? Now fair enough, I heard this first from Foden, who’d heard it from Tammy. But I mentioned it to you at the wedding, and you said you didn’t know anything about it.”

“So?” 

“So the next time I saw you, you said Jack had specifically told you that he’d been sleeping with her, after we broke up.”

“Maybe he did,” Ross shrugged. “Maybe I can’t remember.”

“I saw Tammy in the gym the other day. He’s here with the under’s,” John said, laying it on thick. “Now I made out like I’ve been trying to get in there with Laura Woods, that I wanted to know if she had any history with any of the lads here. Said I’d heard maybe Grealish or even Tammy himself had been there before. Well Tammy had some news for me.” 

“Did he now?”

“He said the only time she’d ever come up was when he was at Villa. Two seasons ago. She’d just broken up with her ex and he’d leaked a topless picture of her, and it’d somehow found its way into their group chat. Jack had said that wasn’t right, to be spreading it like that, so everyone took the piss, saying he must’ve been shagging her to care so much.”

“And he was, wasn’t he?”

“She gave him a handjob in the toilets of a club three years ago and the next morning when she found out what had happened she told Jack never to speak to her again, ‘cause she was so fucking embarrassed, and she could lose her job. Tammy had mentioned it as a joke to Foden, who blew it completely out of proportion, and when you heard about it from me no less, you fucking ran with it. Jack’s not spoken to her in years, and he certainly didn’t cheat on me with her.”

“I’m enjoying this, Stonesy. It’s like storytime at nursery. And let me guess,” Ross taunted, “you asked Chilwell about him and Jack too?”

“I mean, fuck me Ross, I’ve already shagged the lad, so I had nothing to lose by asking, did I?!” he snarled. “I asked him last night. We had a nice long chat, actually.”

Well, maybe John wouldn’t describe it as nice, but Ross had been enjoying ‘storytime’ after all. John’s hunch Ross was lying had extended back weeks, and seeing the way Chilwell and Jack were communicating in person - as nothing but mates, surprisingly distant, actually - had spurred on John to simply ask Ben if anything was happening between them. He’d gone to his room, knocked on the door, apologised for awkwardly ghosting him in the days post-shag, to which Ben had simply said, “get over yourself, John’, before confirming what John had already known.

“And of course, Ross, Chilwell said Jack had sent him a good luck message when he moved to Chelsea, and that was the most he’d heard from him in months. He also said not to trust you, you dirty little snake.”

Ross began to clap slowly, head hanging back on his neck as if he was struggling to care. It only sent John into a deeper state of anger, quickening the pulse throbbing away in his temples.

“You built up a mountain of fucking lies, Ross. What for? Why would you do that to me?”

“Just look at yourself! I can’t fucking stand how mopey you both are! It was you first, at the wedding. Then I joined Villa and Jack was sound, but he was so fucking boring when it came to going out, when it came to lasses, because he’s so hung up on you. He does well to cover it up, like. But you? You walk around like you’re desperate to top yourself!”

“Because you told me the person I cared about was shagging other people! That he sacked me off because of how difficult I was, and not a single word of it was fucking true!”

“Let’s face it John,” Ross said, “you are a miserable bastard.”

“You’re all well and entitled to that fucking opinion Ross, but what you aren’t allowed to do is pass it off as someone else’s!”

Ross’ jaw fell. “Are you trying to piss me off?” 

“What the fuck have I done wrong here?!” John roared.

There was a bang on the door. “John?” Kyle called, daring to pound against the wood. John had forgotten he was even out there; he must’ve locked the door behind him in his blind rage. “John, just leave it. There’s no need for this.”

John turned back to face Ross and stared him down. “Fucking explain yourself, Barkley. Why did you do it?”

“I was trying to do you a favour,” he replied, never one to back down from a fight. “It was affecting both of your games. You needed to break it off for good, move on. I care about you, Stonesy. We used to be best mates. But everything fell apart for you after the World Cup.”

“‘Cause I broke up with the only girl I’d ever been with, Ross, and I realised I liked lads. There’s an obvious explanation, and it’s not ‘cause I was lacking your friendship after I left you at Everton and moved.” 

John had to pause and take a breath, but he knew Ross wouldn’t like what he’d said. There’d always been a bitterness between them in the way John had been bought before Ross, in the way he’d cost fifty million and Ross only fifteen. It was no personal competition, at least not to John, but it’d always been the elephant in the room they’d never been able to shake.

“You think I care enough about you to make this about revenge?” Ross sneered. “I don’t give a shit that you left Everton.”

“Exactly. You did this to spite me, Ross, because you have fuck all else to do. To rattle me.”

“Looks like it worked.”

“So you admit to it? To lying?”

“Maybe I got a bit carried away, but Jesus, John, you’re worse than I thought. You’re fucking obsessed with the lad, aren’t you?”

“I loved him, Ross. I do love him.”

“John!” Kyle bellowed through the door, no doubt praying he’d heard that wrong. “You’re going too far!”

“No wonder you get walked all over Stonesy,” Ross began, closing the distance between them. “Have done ever since your big money move, thinking you were the shit because some bald Spanish twat came and took you away from Merseyside. But all you want is to be loved, isn’t it? You’d be a hopeless romantic if you didn’t have such a nasty side to you. Bottom line is that it was lockdown, alright? You shagged Jack for a bit and that was it. Let it go.”

John took a step closer to Ross, the extra two inches of height he boasted over him serving the situation well. They were so close now they could hear one another’s breath as it rushed from their lips, see the beads of sweat forming on one another’s hairline. 

“Who the fuck are you to comment on my life?” John asked, voice low but full of emotion.

Ross jutted his chin forward, almost knocking against John’s. “I’m a mate.” 

“You’re no mate, Ross.”

“You look like you want to hit me, John. You gonna hit me?”

He’d fucking had it with this cunt. 

Without so much as a second thought John swung on him. A loud smack rang out through the hot air of the hotel room as his fist connected with Ross’ jaw, the momentum of the movement turning both of their bodies away from each other. 

A groan of pain leapt from John’s throat as he clutched his right hand to his chest. His fingers felt as if they were about to drop off one by one, the skin on his knuckles glowing red from the sheer impact of the hit. But it was nothing compared to what he’d done to Barkley. 

Ross was on the floor, writhing against the carpet with both of his hands held up to his face. John might’ve started to panic if he wasn’t high on adrenaline, suspended in shock, unable to look at anything other than the sight of Ross splayed out as he grunted and groaned in an attempt to sit himself up against the end of the bed.

John couldn’t move, didn’t know what to do. He certainly wasn’t going to help Ross to his feet out of fear he’d be hit back ten times harder, but he felt bad about what he’d done, awful, really, almost as if he was sorry for the man. It wasn’t regret, he supposed, or even remorse - but pity. Pity for Ross that he’d pushed John to the point where he’d become physical rather than emotional. That wasn’t like him. 

Eventually Ross found it in him to speak. “What the fuck?” he spat, the words not quite fully formed.

“You were asking for it Ross,” was all John found himself able to say. 

There were some frantic knocks at the door. “John?” Kyle called. “John, what’s happened? You okay?”

He took that as his cue to leave.

Calmly, as if any sudden movements would bring the whole room crashing down around him, he made his way to the door and unlocked it, opening it just far enough for Kyle to peer in at the scene behind him.

“Holy shit,” Kyle whimpered, getting just enough of a look at Ross to work out what had happened before the door swung shut on its hinges. “How the fuck did you manage that?”

“I dunno, but I reckon I’ve broken something,” John mumbled, flexing his right hand until his fingers were so taut they could no longer tremble. 

The pair of them stood and stared at his swollen knuckles, then stared at one another, lost in a shellshocked trance.

“Well I think a broken bone is the last of your worries right now.” 

The consequences of his actions dawned on him. “I’m gonna get sent home, aren’t I?”

“Maybe,” Kyle said softly. “Raz stayed when he went in on Gomez this time last year. He only got left out for a game.”

“That’s ‘cause he’s fucking Raheem Sterling and he’s the best player in the entire country.”

“Speaking of Raheem,” Kyle exclaimed, “he’s gonna lose his rag at us. He’s gonna blame me for not stopping you!”

John couldn’t care less. His legs had already begun to carry him away from Barkley’s room towards the lift at the end of the corridor.

“Where the fuck are you running off to now?!”

“I need a fucking brew.”

-

John was absolutely shitting himself at the back of the coach as they awaited Southgate to board so they could leave for Wembley. 

He and Kyle had made it downstairs right on time to stumble into that afternoon’s pre-match meeting in which the lineup would be announced. Gareth had asked them if they’d seen Ross anywhere, or Jadon, because he seemingly hadn’t bothered to turn up either. They hadn’t had time to agree on what they were going to do - whether John should come clean, or lie through his teeth to defend himself - so they just shook their heads far too enthusiastically and hovered at the back of the room. 

If John did look as guilty as he felt, Southgate hadn’t noticed. He went ahead and declared the lineup; it was fucking three at the back, though to Kyle’s surprise, he wouldn’t be on the pitch, never mind a part of the defensive trio. Neither would John, and he couldn’t tell if that was because Southgate thought he was shit, or good, and wanted to rest him for Belgium and Iceland. Pope and Henderson would each play a half in net, and the front three was to comprise of Sancho, Calvert-Lewin, and Jack. 

Ross wasn’t named in the lineup and so the priority fell on working out where Sancho was. John bit away at the nails on his left hand and hid his right behind his back. His knuckles hadn’t stopped throbbing since the collision, and nor had his head, his mind unable to stop conjuring up images of Ross crashing into the meeting and knocking John to the floor.

But that never happened, and when Southgate told them they had fifteen minutes to gather their things and get on the coach John and Kyle were out the room like a shot. 

They managed to scrounge some tape and a few finger splints to wrap John’s fingers together and he knocked back a couple of Ibuprofens for good measure. If there wasn’t the fear he’d be out on his arse the second Southgate heard what he’d done they’d have probably enjoyed the rush that came with it all, acting like kids again, hiding from the teacher. John had forgot how much fun he and Kyle used to have when they were joined at the hip like they had been today.

It was only as they returned to their rooms to grab their washkits that they realised Raheem hadn’t been in the meeting. They caught Phil on their way to the coach, who told them Raz had done something to his ankle and wasn’t fit to play so would be staying at St George’s.

“That’s one less thing to worry about,” Kyle remarked as they clambered onto the bus.

Despite being some of the last on they found seats next to each other near the back, which they slid into graciously and tried not to argue under their breath about what the plan should be. John noted that Jack was a few rows forward on the opposite side of the aisle, leant over the back of the seat in front of him in order to chat away with Tripps. There was still no sign of Ross, but everyone else seemed to have appeared, even Sancho. 

What if it all came out now, on the coach, where there was no escape? Everyone would hear it, everyone would know what John had done, and fucking hell, he was far from proud about it. The collective humiliation would be enough, but it was only really one person’s judgement that mattered to John. Jack was a kind person, warm-hearted, and friends with Ross no less. He’d hate John for what he’d done.

Kyle nudged John to break him out of his daze. “Gaffer’s getting on.”

John peered over the seat in front of him and watched Gareth make his way down the aisle. 

“Stop shaking your fucking leg,” Kyle hissed, “and don’t you dare start biting your nails. You’re sweating like a nonce outside of a nursery.”

A retort formed in John’s throat, but just as he was about to speak another voice called out loudly over the chatter on the coach.

“Um, Gareth?”

This was swiftly turning into John’s worst nightmare. Jack had raised from his seat, and Southgate followed suit, gesturing for the driver to wait before setting off.

“Where’s Ross?” Jack asked, holding up his phone. “He’s not on the coach and he’s not answering me, either.”

“Ah, I almost forgot - everyone, listen up, please,” Gareth declared.

Fuck. At this point, under this stress, John wouldn’t be surprised if he was in line for a premature stroke.

“Ross has had an unfortunate accident.”

“What?” Jack barked, getting to his feet.

“Nothing to panic about, don’t worry. He slipped getting out of the shower and fell onto the sink, hitting the side of his face as he fell.”

Where are the cameras, John thought - roll out the fucking cameras, say it’s all a prank, and put him out of his fucking misery. 

“Did I hear that right?” Kyle asked, leaning into the aisle so Southgate could see him. “He… he slipped getting out of the shower?”

This couldn’t be fucking happening. Kyle had made no effort to hide his amusement, was borderline fucking laughing, and all John could do was hide his face, praying by some miracle of hope that this didn’t all fall on him.

“How bad is it?”

“He’s going for an x-ray at the hospital now, and he was in a lot of discomfort, complaining of a headache,” Southgate grimaced. “He’ll be heading home before we get back tonight, so that’s the last you’ll see of Ross, I’m afraid.”

“Is he… concussed?” Kyle questioned, trying to tempt fate.

“We don’t know anything yet, Kyle. Let’s just say he wasn’t right in himself, and wasn’t happy about missing out.”

John was in a state of total disbelief. He stared straight ahead at the seat in front of him, limbs tingling.

Kyle on the other hand couldn’t hold it in. Had he been separated from John he’d have maybe been able to keep a straight face, but the way he was acting didn’t even air on the side of slightly suspicious. He was like a kid on fucking Christmas.

“Sit down, Kyle,” John ordered, voice hushed.

Kyle did as he was told and lowered himself into his seat, but not before a whimper of laughter escaped his lips. 

“Did you hear that? He said he’s going for a fucking x-ray.”

“Shut up, Walks.”

“You hit him so hard he’s gone for a fucking x-ray.”

“I’m not kidding,” John said, unable to gauge whether anyone had caught on to their reactions, “shut the fuck up.”

“And he made out like he’d slipped on the fucking bath mat because he can’t admit you actually hit him.”

“If you don’t shut up now I’m moving to another seat.”

“Best of all, you’ve got away with it. You sent Barkley for a fucking x-ray and you’ve got away with it.”

“I won’t be getting away with it if you don’t shut your fucking gob.”

“Fuck me, Johnny,” Kyle beamed. “You’ve made my week.”

That was it. John bundled his washbag under his arm and rose out of his seat just as the coach started to move. He shoved past Kyle and eyed up the nearest free seat, which just so happened to be next to Calvert-Lewin. Thankfully he seemed to be minding his own business, gazing out the window with his AirPods in.

“D’you mind?” John asked, nodding at the seat. “Walks’ is on a Lucozade sugar high, he’s driving me fucking crazy.”

“‘Course not, mate.”

John sat down and buckled himself in, making himself as small as possible by sitting with his legs together, knees pressed up against the seat in front of him. Being six-two made it a task and a half, especially sitting next to another six-two man whose legs were already spread wide. One thing John supposed it might be easy to do next to Calvert-Lewin was to shrink away, which was all he could wish for at this moment in time.

A glance down the aisle behind him told him Kyle had calmed down, and after he received a middle finger in his direction he tried to steady his breathing and come to terms with the idea that he’d ridden out the storm.

He was seemingly off the hook, at least for now. There was no putting it past Ross to turn around and change his story if he wanted to, ruining things for John entirely. But John knew how stubborn Ross was, how conceited he was, and if he’d lied about the punch he’d continue to lie about it to cover his own back. He was being a bit dramatic going for a fucking x-ray, wasn’t he? That felt a step too far. There was no way John had done anything more than give him a bruise which would disappear by next week. What a self-important wanker. 

Dominic started shuffling about beside him, looking for something in his bag. John thought he’d better ask him how he was feeling, you know, out of courtesy, and also simply because he got on with the lad. After a minute or two of small talk Dom made a joke about Southgate and Kane and how he always felt as if he was third-wheeling around them, to which John laughed, a hearty laugh that made him momentarily feel better.

Their conversation soon simmered and John noticed an itch prickling along his spine. The feeling was one he couldn’t shake, one that told him that somewhere, someone’s eyes were on him. He knew exactly where to look.

Jack was glaring at him from over the top of his seat. Glaring, like, properly glaring. John had never seen a look so cold from him before.

This was the first time they’d acknowledged one another. And while it wasn’t the way John had wanted it to be, it was exactly how he’d expected it. John held Jack’s gaze, not even sure he’d blinked. Jack was the first to look away, turning to face the front of the coach, leaving John to wonder how the fuck they’d come to this.

-

England won three-nil and Jack was awarded man of the match. John had sat in the stands with Kyle and played a game of trying to name every swear word they’d ever heard, scowled when Maguire scored, and commented how the skipper better watch his back after Calvert-Lewin scored a very tidy penalty.

It was exhilarating to watch. Well, Jack was - John wasn’t sure he’d say the same about the rest of it. The way he’d had everyone on their toes, skipping through Ireland’s defence, drawing foul after foul. It stung that John couldn’t even congratulate him after the match. It had been their dream to play together; they’d spoken about it so many times, fantasising about the day they might both put on an England shirt, line up for the national anthem and be on the same side. That wasn’t to be, at least not yet.

When they returned to St George’s most of the squad retired to their rooms early. John took his time to make a cup of tea to take to bed, grateful he’d been left alone without anyone on his back. It was overwhelming being with the squad for days on end, and even with Ross gone and Chilwell on his good side, the other lads could be just as demanding.

John began to traipse towards the lift, drink in hand. He almost dropped the mug when he rounded the corner. 

Jack was stood alone waiting for the lift. He was lost in thought, hips slack, jaw tight.

At the very moment that John wondered if he should turn around and take the stairs instead Jack turned his head. He didn’t glare at John, but his gaze hardened, letting him know how he felt.

The lift arrived and the doors slowly opened. John continued to stare gormlessly at Jack, who stepped forward to get into the lift, but not without asking, “Well are you getting in or not?”

The adrenaline kicked in and John saw himself with no other choice. He got there in time before the doors rolled to a close, shutting the pair of them in the square metre of the lift. It would’ve been easy to panic, to start losing a grip on things, but John held his head up and resisted the panic as it threatened to seep in. He had to say something, didn’t he? He’d only regret it if he didn’t. 

“You were great tonight,” he murmured, throat dry, lips numb, lungs burning. “Always are, but… you just keep getting better.”

Jack said nothing, barely batted an eyelid. The rational side in John said that was fair enough, but it didn’t stop his insides from turning and his cheeks from flushing pink. He felt like some random fan harassing an England player, not someone who’d once spent weeks on end in contact with no one else but the man beside him.

The lift doors pinged open on Jack’s floor. John was waiting for him to just walk out, to leave him in silence, but he stayed put and didn’t move a muscle. Eventually the doors closed again and the lift began rising to John’s floor.

Too many thoughts were rushing round John’s head to make sense of what was going on. The lift seemed to suddenly move faster and before he knew it they’d arrived at his floor. He started to leave, but Jack decided to open his mouth.

“Stop,” he ordered, placing his arm across the edge of the lift door to prevent it from closing on him. 

John obeyed and stood just outside of the lift, feeling silly for clutching his his mug of tea so tightly. He hadn’t been sure he’d be ready for this confrontation when it finally came, but right now all he could feel was relief, relief that Jack was even acknowledging him. 

“Did you do it?” Jack asked, his tone already accusatory.

“Did I do what?”

“Hit Ross. Did you?”

John was quiet for a few moments, taken aback by the conviction in Jack’s voice. 

“Well not according to him, no.”

“Don’t be such a fucking smart arse!” Jack snapped, banging his fist against the side of the lift. “Why the fuck would you do that John? This was his first call-up in ages and he’s had to go home. He was on good form for us and now he’ll be sat out for weeks. Such a dick move. Wouldn’t expect that from you.”

John was speechless. He sort of wanted to laugh, or to tell Jack something along the lines of ‘if only you knew’, but he’d already been told to stop being a smart arse and he couldn’t push it, not during the first time they’d spoken in months. It hurt John that this was the way it was going, but what hurt him more was how Jack had no idea that they’d both been played by Barkley like a fucking fiddle.

“It’s not like me, I know,” he admitted. “But there’s a point where you’ve got to stand up for yourself.”

He wanted Jack to ask him what he meant by that, why he’d had to stand up for himself in the first place, but Jack just glared at him disapprovingly. 

“So…” John said, desperate to break the silence, “is that all you wanted to say?”

Jack appeared to genuinely think for a moment, rolling his tongue around his mouth while he did. “Stop with your pathetic matey gang shit. Every time I go near Raheem or Walker all I get is evils.”

John shrugged unconvincingly. “I don’t know what that’s about.”

“Yeah, like fuck you don’t,” he scolded. “And stop flirting with Dominic.”

“I’m not.”

“I know you’re not. Well, not properly, ‘cause I know you don’t actually fancy him, ‘cause you don’t fancy people that are taller than you, so that means you’re only doing it to piss me off.”

John swallowed hard. Had it been that obvious?

“I don’t… I don’t think Dom’s taller than me, by the way.”

“Shut up, John. I’m not trying to have a laugh with you.”

He did shut up, but Jack said nothing else to fill the silence. The lift kept trying to close but Jack kept his hand over the edge as the tension in the air swelled between them. 

“Well... I’m off to bed now,” John mumbled, frowning at his tea that had gone cold. “Knackered. Sleep well, yeah?”

Jack stayed quiet. He didn’t look angry, exactly; John would say he was more disappointed, more torn. Could he be blamed? It killed John to see him like that, to think that he was the reason why Jack was anything other than happy. There was nothing stopping him from explaining everything, from coming clean, but he didn’t want to spoil Jack’s night any more than he already had. He didn’t deserve that.

“Goodnight, then,” John murmured, turning on his heels when no answer came. 

There was still nothing as he began to walk away down the corridor. Nothing but the sound of the lift doors closing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some absolutely golden lines in this chapter, hope that makes up for how extortionately long it is x


	24. belgium away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello merry xmas one and all I come bearing gifts of John at his finest, enjoy x

“Pair up lads!” 

The coach’s instruction seemed simple enough, but John took a glance at the man beside him - all six-two (or maybe six-three) of him, with his honey-brown skin, white teeth, and broad shoulders - and decided he’d better go tap Kyle on the shoulder and partner with him instead.

John had already spent half the morning with Dominic, which in Jack’s opinion was probably half a morning too long. He’d barely slept so had dragged himself out of bed and down to breakfast before eight, where the early risers like Eric, Popey and Dom himself were sat nursing their coffees. By the time John clocked that Jack had arrived the canteen was full and it was almost time for training. But Jack had immediately spotted John sat next to Dom, and in turn John had blown any chance he might’ve had of getting on Jack’s good side before an opportunity could even materialise. 

Despite that, Jack was certainly making up for ignoring John. Their encounter in the lift last night had clearly rattled him to the point where it was impossible for him to act like he didn’t care. He hadn’t bothered to hide his glares from the other side of the changing room as they got into their training gear, and he’d even tried to get in on a conversation John was having with Keaneo as they laced up their boots, making a snide remark about John only having size eight feet.

John wished he’d told Jack that yeah, he might’ve had relatively small feet for a six-two centre-back, but at least he didn’t make out like his dick was a fucking whopper when it was only an inch bigger than the national average in the way that he did. Of course, that line only came to mind after he’d shrugged meekly and broke off into a jog in the direction of the training pitch.

“Come on boys, we’ve not got all day!”

The command awoke John from his daze and brought him to realise Dominic was looking at him expectantly, no doubt due to the fact John had made absolutely no effort to move. He was about to open his mouth to excuse himself when a body barged through the space between them, the stench of Dior Sauvage filling the air. 

Jack stood in front of them with his hands on his hips and a startled look in his eyes.

“I’m with John,” he declared, speaking directly to Dominic.

“Er, ‘course, I wasn’t—”

Without warning Jack wrapped a hand around John’s wrist and yanked him in the opposite direction before Dom could finish his sentence.

“Hey!” John protested, snatching his arm away once they were out of earshot of the group. “What was that for? I was talking to him.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I was interrupting summat so important,” Jack sneered, maintaining an air of cool even though it was clear he’d lost his rag. “What was it? A private meeting for tall, fit, curly-haired fuckboys?”

The back-handedness of the comment caught John completely off guard.

“I— I was just talking to him—”

“But now you’re talking to me,” Jack said. “Why did you hit Ross?”

John sighed wearily and turned his back on the coaches, hoping he could keep his head down enough to get lost behind the group as they began their stretching exercises.

“Not this again, Jack. Ask him yourself.”

“We all know he’s too full of himself to admit you managed to lay a hand on him.”

John laughed through his teeth and pretended to stretch out his hamstrings. “Don’t know what you want me to say, then.”

“I want you to tell me why you hit him!”

“Where do I fucking start?”

“Well you’re far from thick, so it shouldn’t be too hard a story to tell.”

Another exasperated sigh fell from John’s lips and he dared to glance over his shoulder at the rest of the group. Suspicions were rising - mostly because Jack was stood stock-still, staring at John with his arms crossed over his chest while everyone else went about warming-up on the spot. It also wouldn’t take a genius to realise that this was the first time the pair of the had even been within a metre of one another for the whole break. 

“You’ve really picked a great fucking time for it Jack, haven’t you?”

“Don’t get all sarcastic with me, John. It’s only attractive when you’re not doing it to piss me off. Why did you hit him?”

John said nothing, well aware his expression said a thousand words. His silence prompted Jack to take a step forward and close in on him, making it feel as if they were the only two out on the pitch.

“I asked Raheem, ‘cause I knew it’d be a task and a half getting it out of you. He told me Ross has been lying to you. Lying about me, things I’ve said, done…”

John avoided Jack’s gaze and tried not to let the sea of emotions he was feeling show. 

“Well there’s your answer, isn’t it.”

“But I need to hear it from you. I need to know exactly what he’s done,” Jack pressed, voice hushed. “‘Cause you don’t go around hitting people, John. I know you, and I know that’s not the kind of person you are.”

A lump swelled in his throat and for once he was grateful for the harsh wind blowing across the pitch, providing an easier excuse for the film of water that had swept across his eyes. 

“Not here, Jack,” he murmured. “Everyone’s watching. Just not now, alright?”

His nostrils were flared, but he nodded curtly, aware one of the coaches had begun to head their way in order to tell them to get a move on. Nothing was quite okay, but it was a start, and John instantly felt he could breathe better now Jack knew he hadn’t done it out of jealousy or spite.

Getting that out of the way allowed both of them to train without fearing that the other might turn around and tell them to fuck off. They went into their sprint warm-ups wordlessly but stuck side by side, their movements in perfect time. The minutes passed and before they knew it instinct kicked in in the form of cheeky sideways glances thrown at one another when Maguire tripped over his own feet, or the muscle-memory that took over when the time came to lean on one another and swing their legs, knowing just the right amount of pressure they could apply in order to keep their balance.

The pair of them started pushing it at that point. Jack’s hands kept ghosting over the sensitive skin on the back of John’s neck, and the second John caught on and swatted him away Jack took it a step further, running his fingertips over the exact spot that made John shiver and squirm as they lined up for sprint drills. It was just as well that John remembered the dip in Jack’s waist where a slightest touch would make him buckle over.

Kyle and Raheem chose to ignore the pair’s not-so-discreet antics for the most part, but their wary looks and shakes of the head weren’t lost on John. Shame he’d got to the point where he couldn’t give a fuck, electrified by Jack’s touch and attention, high off the realisation that the man didn’t hate him, not at all. 

They were told to split into three separate groups for rondos. John and Jack mostly ignored the coaches’ instructions and stayed put until the groups had formed to see which seemed the safest, or in short, whichever didn’t include Kyle, Raheem, Chilwell, or Dom. 

From the corner of his eye John could just about see Jack gazing at him with his chin raised and his eyes narrowed, their comfortable silence affording him the chance to properly look at John for the first time since their last encounter.

“See you’ve finally had your hair cut,” he eventually said.

“Yeah. Kept the stubble though,” John replied, running his palm over the tilt of his jaw and down the length of his neck. “Feel weird without it now.”

Jack followed John’s every move, and when John turned his head and caught him staring the other man’s breath hitched in his throat before he promptly looked away. It wasn’t like Jack to get flustered, to show that anyone else ever had any sort of sway over him.

“You know, before we came, Ross told me you were looking like shit,” he said, unable to hold back the hint of a smirk that pulled at the corners of his lips. “But when I saw you for the first time I knew he was having me on, ‘cause you look the best you ever have. To me, at least.”

John scoffed. “Don’t be daft. I’ve barely had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.”

Jack turned his back on the rest of the group and placed his hands on his hips, that smile John had missed so dearly blindingly present on his beautiful face.

“I miss you,” he said. “I miss you putting yourself down whenever I compliment you.”

“I miss you too,” John murmured without hesitation, though found himself unable to say it as brazenly as Jack even if he meant it all the same, if not more. 

“We still need to talk about it all though, John.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he conceded, eyes falling to the floor. As blissful as this moment was, both were aware it had done little to set things right. “Maybe not while we do fucking rondos, though.”

Jack’s head rolled back on his neck and he laughed, a soft, fluttery laugh that set John alight.

“Yeah, suppose not. It’s nice to be on the same team for once, anyway.”

-

Friday evening was when John and Jack had planned to talk. Well, planned insinuated they’d done it together - it was more like Jack had appeared behind him in the gym and told him to come to his room after they were both done with everything for the day.

John was shitting it. It was the fear that Jack could turn around and tell him there was no chance, they were done, he wanted different things. And John had gone and got his hopes up, hadn’t he? As much as he’d tried to distract himself from it he’d gone and pictured a perfect reconciliation and all the fairytale shite that came with it. He knew he was going to come crashing back down to earth sooner or later.

His rose-tinted fantasy had already started to go off the rails when Southgate called the entire squad together after their evening meal for an impromptu meeting. Impromptu wasn’t Southgate’s style. They were meant to be flying to Belgium tomorrow but it was looking bleak with Covid travel restrictions. 

There was a certain mood in the camp, though, and it was one John hadn’t experienced before. The gaffer had his gravely-serious face on, the one where one eyebrow was raised, the other hanging heavy over his eye. Nothing good ever came when Southgate had that face on.

As John filed into the room behind Kyle and Tripps he allowed himself a glance over at Jack. He was sat beside Rice and Mount, laughing away at something or other. It was hard to explain the feeling of being in the same room as him and their England teammates, a combination of constant dread and fear from the thought they’d be found out, contrasted by a swell of elation, lust and pride. John was all over the fucking place.

But Kyle had noticed, and like any good friend had told him to pack it in. Being as mature as he was he’d also tried to scold John for ‘cosying up’ to Jack in training before Raheem stepped in, only opening his mouth to warn John not to get ahead of himself. 

“Yeah, fair point Raz,” he’d admitted. “Bit late for that, though.”

Once everyone had found a seat and settled Southgate took his place at the front of the room and cleared his throat.

“Now, I’ve called this meeting because there’s been a development this afternoon that concerns us, and it needs addressing,” he began, hands clasped.

John had no idea what was coming next, but he was already dreading it.

It was explained that the head of the FA, a man called Greg Clarke, had done an interview in which he referred to black people as coloured and said that gay footballers choosing to be closeted was their choice, implying that the FA could do nothing about it. Southgate used the analogy of a car-crash to describe the interview, which John thought was flattering. A plane crashing into the Twin Towers would’ve been more apt.

It all seemed simple enough, really. The FA looking bad meant that the national team looked bad, though of course, that worked the other way as well. The national team had gone a strong, solid, big fat zero months without looking bad. Half of the squad had fucked up one way or another over the course of the pandemic and there was no doubt Southgate’d had a task and a half of mopping up the mess to appease his big bosses.

But now the shoe was on the other foot, and the biggest boss of all had made a right royal mess in a role that oversaw one of the most multicultural England squads ever, managed by a man who took pride in the inclusiveness of how he ran his team and the ethos of how he did his job.

Maybe he was just being his typically cynical self, but John struggled to ignore the idea that Southgate was probably rubbing his hands together at the chance to morally one-up his superiors. He’d been banging on for a while now, essentially repeating the same thing over and over; this was not the way the FA operated. But he was preaching to the converted.

“Now of course, we need to distance ourselves from Mr Clarke’s comments, and make it clear we disagree and do not condone discrimination, whether in the forms of racism, or homophobia.”

John wanted to laugh. He hated acting like they were above it all, acting as if there weren’t actual steps the FA could take to prevent things like this from happening. You could keep kneeling and having patches on shirts and wearing rainbow-coloured laces and taking minutes of silence for as long as it was on trend, but it was doing nothing to help the people actually affected, to help the players and the fans themselves. It was awareness, and sure, that was good, but it was far from actual change.

They’d all seen it too many times, racism in football, discreet or blatant. John would bet they’d all heard the homophobic chants too, the slurs in the changing rooms. At least that was something you could turn your cheek on. People could hide being gay, couldn’t they? That was something John might’ve told himself a year ago, but not now. He hadn’t been prepared for the disgust he was feeling. It fanned over him like a burning heat, an acidic wave flushing through his limbs.

Gay players didn’t want to come out? Of course they didn’t fucking want to. Was no one asking why? They didn’t fucking need to. All the answers were right in front of them - it was hardly a choice to come out or not. If no one was going to help them it was never going to happen. And any so-called ‘help’ so far had been more of a hindrance.

Southgate was complicit in this. His part in silencing Dele and Eric felt personal to John. Dele’s absence had been glaringly obvious all week and John hadn’t been able to get his mind off it, off the thought of him isolated, alone, with no one to stick up for him. Dier had let him down there, but Southgate had let both of them down even more.

“So, would anyone like to bring anything up?” the manager asked. “This is an environment where we can talk, and should talk about these things.”

John’s eyes darted over to Eric. He was sat just like John; legs bouncing anxiously, arms folded, eyebrows furrowed. One of them had to speak, and John knew Eric wouldn’t be the first. There’d never be a better time than this.

“Are you gonna say something Dier, or am I?”

Eric froze. Everyone else did too, a collective sense of confusion seeping through the group like poison. John immediately knew he’d fucked up, had let his emotions get the better of him once again, but all he found himself able to do was match Eric’s stare and remember to breathe in and out, chest up and down.

“Say something about what, Stonesy?”

John could’ve hit him. 

“You know exactly what.”

“I really don’t.”

Everyone in the room watched on, stunned to silence.

In front of their audience Eric had managed to sound convincing but John knew him too well, knew when he was lying. He knew what that look on his face meant, and he knew just how much Eric wanted to launch out of his seat and stick his thumbs in John’s eyes.

In fact, Eric was playing dumb so well that John sort of needed it to all kick off if only to justify the randomness of him piping up. Just a nudge to get him closer to the edge; that was all Eric would need.

“What would Del say if he could hear you now, eh?”

A nudge? That was more like pushing him off the entire fucking cliff. Bringing Dele into this when he wasn’t here to defend himself - anyone could see that was a step too far. John had visions of Eric throwing himself at him, arms outstretched, fists flying, Kane pulling him back before he could make a connection. 

But the man just about held himself together. His expression cracked - everyone saw that - but he didn’t move a muscle, hardly flinched. 

“I don’t know why you’re being such a big man all of a sudden,” he told John, shaking his head slowly. “Go ahead though if you want to expose yourself, and others who you haven’t even spoken to about this that might suffer the consequences of it.”

Well that was pretty fucking black and white, wasn’t it? To John, at least. Everyone else was fucking lost, stuck in the awkward position of having to watch it all while not having a single idea what was going on. John looked like a right wanker. In front of the whole squad, in front of the manager, in front of Jack. His breaths were coming quick and his chest was growing tighter. He’d brought this on himself.

“Fine,” he spat, rising out of his seat. “But I can’t sit here and listen to this bullshit any longer.”

Alarm bells had finally started ringing in Southgate’s ears. “John?”

“Don’t bother,” he insisted, heading for the door. “You carry on.”

John fled like his life depended on it. He saw it as just another failure when he struggled to make it further than one of the conference rooms that lined the corridor by the lifts. He ducked into the empty room and tumbled against the wall, his heart racing so frantically he thought it might suddenly stop altogether.

This was the worst episode he’d ever experienced. It wasn’t crying, at least not yet - it was more wheezing and panting, not being able to catch his breath, choking and chasing after the slightest gasp of air.

He hadn’t realised his vision was blurred and black at the edges until Kyle appeared, dropping to his knees to hold his head to his chest and soothe him until he no longer feared he’d never quite breathe again. 

They could’ve been there for mere seconds, or for days, and John wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference. But it couldn’t have been long, not at all, as when he eventually edged open his eyes and took a look past Kyle he was met by two pale, panicked faces staring down at him. 

“Get them out,” John just about managed to tell Kyle. 

“Just— just give him space,” Kyle ordered, throwing a hand in the direction of the door. 

Neither Southgate nor Jack made an effort to move. John refused to believe this was real, but the agonising pain engulfing his lungs told him otherwise. He pulled his knees tighter to his chest and buried his head down, hating how pathetic he felt, but having no other choice.

“Come on Johnny, breathe,” Kyle pleaded, growing concerned. “Where are your pills, mate? You brought your pills?”

“Pills?” Jack questioned, his voice far too loud. “What’s wrong with you, John? John? What’s up with him? Is he ill?”

“It’s just a panic attack, alright?” Kyle answered.

John heard Southgate sigh. “Has he had them before, Kyle?” 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“No he hasn’t.” Jack’s voice.

“Er, I think he has, Grealish pal. I think you’ve caused a fair few yourself.”

“Fuck d’you just say?” 

John heard movement. Jack had stepped forward and Kyle had got to his feet, but John was determined to get a word in before anything could happen.

“Can you all just fuck off?”

After a moment of gormless silence Kyle was the first to open his mouth, struck by the fact he might’ve fussed over John for nothing.

“Not me. I’m not leaving.”

John groaned under his breath and turned his head to the side, unable to look anyone in the eye. “No, not you.”

“Right,” Southgate said, sounding far from pleased. “Let’s leave them to it for now, Jack, alright?”

“No,” Jack scoffed. “Am I fuck leaving him like this.”

Kyle was quick to snap. “Are you joking right now?”

“Kyle,” the manager warned. “Come on, Jack.”

“But I should be here with him!”

“You didn’t even know he’d ever had a fucking panic attack until a minute ago!”

“It’s nice that you care, Jack,” Southgate said, trying to nullify Kyle’s claims, “and I’m sure John will let you tell him so when he feels up to it a bit later on.”

Jack ignored Southgate completely and dropped to his knees, daring to get as close to John as he possibly could without actually touching him. 

“John,” he murmured, edging forward. “John, look at me.”

“Jack, I swear to God, you’re the last person he—”

“Why won’t you just talk to me, John? Look, it can be just me and you now, and we can speak about everything, about all of it. John?”

Kyle stamped his foot. “Can you not take a bloody hint?” 

“Please talk to me, John,” Jack begged. “I can’t fucking stand seeing you like this.”

“And he can’t stand the fucking sight of you either, Grealish!”

“Kyle!” Southgate barked.

“It’s only the truth!”

“Would all of you just leave me alone?!” John bellowed, sick of the childish back and forth. “All of you, now. Every single one of you.”

Jack tore his hands through his hair and released a wail of desperation. “Just let me stay with you. Please, John. Please.”

Impulse forced John to sneak a look at the man crouched beside him. His eyes were glassy, flooded with a wet sheen of tears, and his lips were parted, wavering and breathless as he awaited a response. How’d John made him feel that way? 

“Think I just need to be alone for a bit,” he said.

Jack looked broken. 

John thought he couldn’t possibly feel any worse, but when Jack obeyed his wishes and got to his feet, head hung forward as he wiped the back of his hand across his eyes, John realised he’d never forgive himself for this.

Southgate tried to put his hand on Jack’s back and direct him towards the door but Jack shrugged him off forcefully, lumbering towards the exit. The manager waited for Jack to leave, the deliberate slam of the door causing him to sigh.

“Everyone’s still where they were before, so if you head to your room now there’ll be few questions asked,” Southgate suggested. “We’ll speak about this later John, yes?”

He nodded meekly. He’d rather fucking die than explain himself, but Southgate’s question was a command, not something that entailed a choice. 

Kyle helped him to his feet and wrapped an arm around him. He felt like an escaped mental patient who’d needed sectioning, especially once they reached his room and he collapsed onto the bed, only raising his head from the pillow to dry-swallow his meds.

He didn’t feel sorry for himself, but he shed a few silent tears to release the pent-up energy in his body before exhaustion took over. Kyle stayed beside him. He had nothing to say but knew his presence would reassure John, a gentle reminder he was there and always had been since their early days together.

John’s eyes were growing heavy. “Does this mean you owe Kev fifty quid?” 

Kyle laughed curtly. “Think you’re clever, do you?”

“Seriously, though… thanks Ky,” John murmured, looking up at him through his wet eyelashes. “I love you mate, and I mean it.”

“Love you too, even now I’m fifty quid out of pocket.”

-

The last place John had wanted to be was in the stands. Yet here he was in the quaint Belgian city of Leuven, fucking freezing, arse numb, forced to watch his own side play the most turgid, skull-numbing football possible. No one was particularly shocked that they’d trudged into the dressing room already two-nil down at half-time. 

He’d been desperate to play against Belgium. Southgate had even admitted that he’d been set to start until the events that had transpired two days earlier made him change his mind. Despite how much John insisted he was fine, the manager had put his foot down and said no. 

“Jack has rightfully earned his place in the team, John, and I don’t know if I can trust the two of you on the pitch together at this point in time.” 

Any argument John had was pretty much thrown out the window when Jack was factored into the equation. He’d been dreading eventually having to broach the subject of their relationship with his manager, but Southgate had said it’d hardly come as a surprise, recalling that John had resigned his spot in the squad for Jack a few months earlier and citing the way they’d been avoiding one another like wildfire. 

Their conversation had taken a strangely emotional turn at that point; Gareth admitted he’d neglected the fact that members of his squad were closeted for too long, and he admitted he’d done wrong by Dele and Eric and knew he needed to apologise. They spoke about John’s anxiety and how he’d been getting better, and Gareth took no haste in praising the almost unbelievable turnaround in form he’d had. 

But before he reclaimed his starting role he had to agree to a meeting with both Jack and Southgate when they arrived back to St George’s. And then, on the player’s terms, discussions would start with the FA about how they were going to approach the issue of them coming out, which no doubt was only going to grow worse in coming years if nothing was done about it now.

John knew he had to take things one step at a time, and there were two things on his mind - starting in their final game of the year against Iceland, and most importantly, putting things right with Jack.

He’d got lucky in a twisted sort of way. Seconds after he’d made off in the middle of the meeting the other day with Kyle, Southgate and Jack in his wake, Dier’d had his own minor outburst. Naturally, Kane was in charge once Gareth had left the room. He’d attempted to console Eric but there’d been a tussle, a shove and an exchange of insults, which of course overshadowed John’s incendiary comments. Eric hadn’t spoken to John since, had acted as if he didn’t exist, which John could live with for now. Very few questions had been asked by his teammates - with the exception of Jack.

Taking John’s declaration of wanting to be alone for a bit a touch too literally for his liking, Jack had begged Raheem for answers as to why John had been so overwhelmed, why he’d hit Ross, why he’d reacted the way he had. With John’s blessing Raz had filled Jack in on the basics; Ross being a twat, Laura Woods, Chilwell, John’s anxiety. John panicked for a while after, terrified Raheem might’ve mentioned something about Leroy, but he couldn’t even remember if Raheem knew about all that and would prefer it stay that way.

Watching the game alone in the stands allowed John to clear his mind. He’d got this far; a place back in the national team, a part of the squad flown away to Belgium. A starting spot at his club. Those things would’ve seemed impossible to him at the start of the year. 

And sure, maybe it would be easy to look at the change and say he was better off without Jack, but he struggled to believe that. The change was down to how he’d stopped fawning over someone who could never like him back (how’s it going in Munich, Leroy, he’d often wanted to snidely ask), how he’d started looking after himself both physically and mentally, and how he’d grown more comfortable with who he was. He couldn’t have done that in the first place without Jack.

When the time came to make changes Southgate didn’t bother to send him out to warm up. They both knew he didn’t stand a chance anyway, but it would’ve been nice to stop shivering. For the most part he was served a distraction from the biting cold by a certain someone on the pitch, though for once that certain someone wasn’t the best midfielder in the world (known alternatively to John as his good mate Kev), but another individual he was also honoured to know. 

There was no two ways about it - Jack was on the losing side, but he’d showed up every other player on that pitch with the way he had the game on strings. It was a shame their defence had conceded two sloppy goals and Belgium had been so solid. The result failed to justify just how incredible Jack had been, but it didn’t matter. Everyone else could see it now, not just John. 

Just before the ninetieth minute Southgate brought him off to applause from the subs in the stands. The fourth official raised his board, indicating six hefty minutes of extra time, and Jack began to make his way up the steps to take a seat in the stands before full time came around.

John watched in awe as Jack continued to climb the steps further, closer and closer to him, before he reached the end of John’s aisle and turned to make his way along the row of seats. He stopped just before he reached John, and without a word he sat down, leaving the gap of a single seat between them. 

Nothing John could say felt sincere enough. But Jack had never been one to beat around the bush.

“Raheem told me everything,” he declared, turning his head to the side so he was able to gaze at John. 

John looked at him back. The winter air had drawn a cloud of steam around him like a halo, and the cold accentuated his flushed and rosy cheeks, the only remnant that indicated he’d just produced one of the best performances of his life.

“I know. He said.”

“I had no idea you had panic attacks. I knew you got nervous sometimes, and of course I knew how much you like to overthink, but I thought it was just that, John. Thought you was just sensitive as fuck, which there’s nowt wrong with, but…” 

He paused and sighed, unable to find the right words.

“You just never mentioned to me that you actually struggled. We never spoke about it.”

John felt the all-too familiar sensation of shame creeping over him. “‘Cause it’s embarrassing.”

“We were together every day for five months but you still thought it’d be embarrassing to tell me?”

They stared at one another, both knowing Jack was right. 

“I’d stopped having them when I was with you,” John sighed. “Thought they were behind me. But it all came back when Foden told me you were sleeping with Laura Woods.”

“Which I wasn’t, so don’t you dare say it like I was.”

“I know,” John conceded, voice barely reaching above a whisper.

“I can’t believe you’d think I’d cheat on you, especially when football had only just started again, when you were injured as well, and so upset about it. I tried to be there for you, and even in the middle of a fucking relegation battle you were the only thing on my mind. And the fact you’d actually think I’d ever go back to Chilwell after being with you…” He stopped himself and had to take a few moments to catch his breath. “Don’t get me started on the things Ross said, ‘cause it hurts a bit actually, John, to think that you’d ever, ever believe I’d call you a burden.”

“In hindsight… in hindsight I was wrong, I know. I know that now. But it all made sense with the way I was feeling at the time.”

Jack scoffed and threw his hands up. “Why couldn’t you just fucking tell me how you were feeling?”

“At the start I was so desperate for you to like me, Jack, for you to think I was all put together. I’m only a year older but I wanted to act more mature, you know, properly grown up and that. And then in lockdown when we were close I didn’t have to put an act on, I could be myself, ‘cause I was that comfortable around you I never had anything to worry about. I hardly felt anxious, so telling you about things that had happened before just wasn’t on my mind. When football started again and I got injured, yeah, that’s when things were different. But by that point I didn’t want you to feel like I was a burden, like I was just another thing to worry about when you were already so busy. That’s why the Laura Woods thing made sense to me. I wasn’t doing it for you anymore.”

“You must think I’m an absolute wanker.”

“No.”

“I can’t believe you think I’d do that.”

“It was a matter of pride, Jack,” John told him. “There’s plenty of other people out there better looking than me, without dire mental health, who’d die to get to know you.”

“Even if that was true it’s fucking irrelevant. I wanted to be with you,” he stated. “Why couldn’t you trust that? Did I not show it? You’re the one that pushed me away. You ran away. Literally.”

“You left the house first.” 

Jack scoffed loudly at that, no longer bothering to hide his frustration. 

“I left the house because you really pissed me off, John, and you’d never pissed me off before, which scared me. And the thought of saying summat nasty to you when I was angry… I wouldn’t anyway, but I just needed to calm down.”

Curiosity got the better of John. “Where did you go?” 

“I went to Tesco. Not that it matters.”

“Tesco? What’d you go to Tesco for?”

“I didn’t know where else to go. So I sat in the car park for a while, and I tried to calm myself down. I was so pissed off. So pissed, John,” he said, sounding as if he’d crack if John so much as breathed in his direction. “I remember it so clearly, my hands clenching the fucking steering wheel, wanting to rip it off. I was pissed off at you for pushing me away, but I was more pissed at myself for not being more gentle with you. But I came to my senses a bit, and I went in, and I bought the most expensive flowers they had. Red roses, they were. And I got some wine, and I got some chocolate, and some fucking tiger bread, and those shit Rolo cookies that are always reduced because they go stale and no one wants them.”

All of John’s favourite foods. Especially the shit Rolo cookies that were always reduced because they go stale, which had become a guilty pleasure over lockdown when all they’d had to do with their days was make a trip to the supermarket.

“I had no idea you did that.”

“‘Course you didn’t fucking know. But do you have any idea how it felt to get home and see your car gone, and all the lights off? And then to unlock the fucking door, and feel something under my foot, and realise you’d posted your own key back through the letterbox?”

“I’m sorry.” The words came out hushed, trapped in his throat, feeble and pathetic.

“And I even searched the house, still. Couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe you had it in you to do that to me. Downstairs was empty, and the bedroom… you’d cleared out all your fucking clothes. Your jewellery, gone off the drawers. And then I saw the bathroom light was on, and I thought, na, he’s just messing with me. That’s him, he’s still here. He wouldn’t leave.”

Jack’s eyes had glazed over, his gaze lost in the distance as if he was reliving the exact moment in the depths of his mind. John would’ve given anything not to know what came next in the story.

“But you’d just forgotten to turn the light off, hadn’t you? Had even remembered to take your toothbrush and all.”

“I regretted it the second I’d done it.”

“You still did it though.”

“And I wish all the fucking time I hadn’t. Believe me when I say I'm sorry, Jack."

“You know I’m not one to get upset. Or to cry. But have you stopped to think how it made me feel?” he asked, leaning forward in his seat. “I know you like to act as if you’ve got it bad, and I’m the strong one, the resilient one out of us two. To think you could just leave me like that, and think I’d get on just fine—”

“From the look of all those Instagram posts in Mykonos you seemed just fine. From what Foden told me about you and Laura Woods, and then what Barkley said about you and Chilwell, yeah, you seemed right as rain actually, Jack.”

The second the words left his lips John knew he shouldn’t have said it, that it wasn’t fair. But Jack just slumped down in his seat and shook his head, knowing better than to rise to it.

“You’re not a gullible person, John. You’re decent at turning a blind eye. You’re not too bothered about what anyone says when it’s their opinion of you… you just let it pass over your shoulder. But you seem to believe everything every other fucker out there has to say about me.”

“’Cause I had no reason to believe they were lying, Jack.”

“You might not think so, but you should, you should have a reason. Your own fucking personal opinion of me should make you think they’re lying when they say I’d cheat. When they say I’ve shagged a lad I’d never touch again with a fucking barge pole, not after being with you.”

John put his head in his hands. “I didn’t believe all of that, not really. Deep down I didn’t. I knew.”

“You knew what?”

“Knew that you wouldn’t do those things,” John grovelled. “But when Barkley said that shit about you wanting me gone because I was difficult, that I was a burden… all I thought was how’d he even know that, Jack? How would he have… made that up, without hearing it straight from you? And that’s what he told me, that’s exactly what he said. I trusted him, ‘cause I thought he was a mate, and I trust my mates. Always have. And he knew how to take advantage of that.”

Tears had started now. He felt the first drop roll down his cheek just as the referee blew the full time whistle. 

“Knew we shouldn’t have fucking spoken here,” John seethed, furious at himself for reacting this way. Now he’d have to walk into the dressing room all jittery, eyes red and wet, right in front of Southgate as well.

But the thought of that quickly disappeared. Jack had wrapped his arms around him, bundling him into the safety of his warmth. It was exactly as it had been before, felt so right, and John could’ve burst into a million pieces at the feeling.

“We aren’t two metres apart,” he panicked still, voice muffled against Jack’s shoulder. “You’ll get knackered.”

Jack laughed softly. “We’ll both get knackered. How they gonna fucking know, anyway?” 

“Are you kidding? You know they’ll have the cameras on you right now, be ranting and raving about how you’re man of the match.”

“Oh, bollocks to that,” Jack exclaimed, lips warm against John’s ear. “I’ve waited too fucking long for this.”

They stayed like that until they were interrupted by one of the coaching staff who called up to them from the bench.

“What the fuck are you two playing at? Inside, now!”

Like schoolboys caught by a teacher, giddiness overcame the pair of them. They raced one another down the steps and into the tunnel, where John ran smack-bang into the back of one of the Belgium players.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” came the complaint as the player turned around. “You idiot, John.”

“Sorry Kev,” John grinned, unable to believe his luck. “Didn’t see you there. Walks owes you fifty quid by the way.”


	25. iceland at home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short(er) and sweet one for once, only right for the final chapter. Hope I've done it justice x

It was a crisp morning, with the rays from the low sun on the horizon breaking through the haze of mist in the sky over St George’s Park to bask the squad in a welcome warmth. They were out onto the pitch for the last training session of the break where it was announced they’d be playing a full half, eleven v eleven, north versus south. There was nothing better.

John didn’t want it to end. He loved playing for City - there were no two ways about that - but there was just something else about England, something about being a part of a group that could give everyone in the country something to celebrate, no matter how infrequent or brief it may be, no matter the amount of heartbreak it would inevitably bring. There was that, and playing with Jack.

“Right, there’s exactly twenty-three of you, and three of you are keepers, so rotate throughout. You can all work it out amongst yourselves who the northerners are, and who the southerners are,” Southgate announced with a grin, clearly having way too much fun. “You have five minutes to get into your teams and work out your tactics, and then we’ll start.” 

The London lads all naturally banded together on one side of the pitch and the Yorkshire lads did the same. The Sheffield faithful of Kyle, Harry, and Dom already looked too proud for their own good. They were joined by the Manchester lot - Keaneo, Tripps, Marcus, and Foden - and the two Mackems, Hendo and Pickford. The extra keeper was theirs in the form of Dean, who was from somewhere near Carlisle. 

Naturally, Hendo took the role of skipper. He seemed to have counted eleven heads and went about assigning positions at the speed of light.

“So, DCL and Rashy, you two up front, five at the back, Walks and Tripps wingbacks, Pickers or Deano, one of you two go in the three at the back, you’ll do fine, and Stonesy, you’ll have to come forward into midfield with me and Phil, mate.”

The group erupted at that point, all talking over one another with words that were of no value at all. It was as if a substitute teacher had just stumbled into a set eight science lesson and was being swept under by his inability to control a class even if his fucking life depended on it. It was delightful to be a part of.

“Hang on a minute though, that can’t be right,” John called out over the ruckus, knowing the blame’d be laid at his door if they lost. He’d played defensive-mid a grand total of two games for Pep, and he hadn’t exactly impressed anyone. “We have the spare keeper, so surely we’re missing someone.” 

“Except the person you think we’re missing could be southern you plonk,” Tripps said, reaching up on his toes to flick the top of John’s ear for good measure. 

“Well who’ve them lot got?” Marcus asked. 

All heads turned to survey the opposition. They’d lost a lot of the original squad along the way to injury. Chilwell and Raz had both departed once they’d returned from Belgium, and they’d said goodbye to Trent, Gomez, Coady, and Ward-Prowse early on too. Barkley as well, if you wanted to count him, the twat.

After a moment of concentration John made out exactly eleven southerners; Popey, James, Saka, Maitland-Niles, Mings, Dier, Rice, Winks, Mount, Sancho, and of course, captain Kane. It made for a pretty solid side.

“Someone’s missing!” Hendo yelled, head about to burst.

John knew exactly who. “It’s Jack.”

“Missed much?” a voice called. Everyone turned back to face one another and was met with the sight of Jack stood at the edge of the circle they’d made, tugging a pair of black gloves on without a care in the world. “Was fucking freezing. Had to go back in to wrap up.”

The mood that simultaneously ran through the group was inexplicable. They all looked at one another, exchanging glances that said exactly the same thing, an almost telepathic thought - did Jack count as being northern?

Hendo cleared his throat. “Right, Grealo, just hold your horses…”

“What’s happened now?” Jack frowned.

“It’s just… anyone else think Birmingham’s a bit far south for their liking?”

No one was able to hide the smirk on their face, or the way their body buckled from holding in their laughter. They were taking the piss at heart, but the fact stood that out of the entire group Jack was definitely born and raised the furthest south, and excluding Tripps who played in a completely different country, Jack’s club was also furthest south. 

“Na, na,” he moaned, shaking his head slowly. “You lot’ve got to be having me on.”

John couldn’t miss the chance to wind Jack up. “In my opinion Birmingham’s down south,” he declared. 

“Do I sound like I’m from down south?!”

“You hardly sound English,” John said. 

He earned a rapturous roar of laughter for that. John thanked his lucky stars that the pair of them had made up a few days earlier. The funny side would never be lost on Jack though, who couldn’t hold back the contagious grin that spread across his face or stop his eyes from creasing at the corners, which told John how he really felt. 

“Right then,” Hendo shouted. “Grealish, north or south? Hands up if he’s a southerner!”

Everyone’s hands shot up in the air, the action punctuated by an amused chorus of shrieks and howls.

“You need the extra player, you muppets!” Jack exclaimed. “Who the fuck you gonna play in the middle - John?!” 

Hendo frowned, taking the comment to heart more than John himself. “Well we were, actually.”

“Maybe Jack makes a fair point,” John cut in. “He’s only going begging otherwise. We’ll have him.”

The group broke into a round of sarcastic applause, cheering and whooping, their playfulness escalating until before long Jack was being roughed up like a rag doll, hair ruffled, armpits poked. John simply stood there and marvelled at the sight before him. Jack doubled over in a fit of laughter and the sun broke through the clouds, casting a golden ray of light across the side of his face.

“Grow up, you lot!” Hendo barked, proper future gaffer material. “Now onto the easy part - beating these lot!”

The group broke apart and made their way to their positions. John claimed his place as the right-sided centre-back in the trio of him, Maguire, and Keaneo. Walks was to his right, Pickers behind him, and in front of him was Hendo. Safe as fucking houses, and perfect for Foden and Jack to weave their magic for Dom and Marcus to finish. They had this in the bag.

Jack weaved around John as he made his way to the halfway line. He stopped for a moment, lingering just in front of him for long enough to get a word in without anyone else noticing.

“Never mind taking pity on me and having me in the team,” he said under his breath, giving John the eyes. “You’d have me any day of the week, in every sense of the fucking word.”

-

John followed behind Jack down the length of the corridor, watching every movement he made. The breezy swing of his arms at his sides, the tilt of his head, the sway of his hips. The way he paused to glimpse over his shoulder only once, and the way he turned back just slow enough for John to catch sight of the smile that had found its way onto his face. 

“What a load of crap that was,” he called out behind him.

John shrugged to himself, aware Jack couldn’t see the motion. “At least he was trying.”

They’d been for their meeting with Southgate and were feeling rather numb to it all. After it’d wrapped up they’d hastily escaped the manager’s office, and Jack had led John up the stairs as if they were going to play FIFA or something similarly innocent. 

Their relationship had recovered, and the pair of them were being civil, friendly, flirty, even. In so many words they’d made up, and they’d spelled that out clearly to Southgate, who seemed relatively satisfied with what he’d been told. But they were yet to kiss, yet to do anything of the physical sort, and while John loved the chase, it was slowly driving him up the wall. He’d almost come close to losing all dignity and wanking himself off in the shower the morning they’d got back from Belgium. 

“I reckon he’s one of those closet hardcore Christians,” Jack said, flashing his keycard against the lock of his door to gain entry. “You know, one of them that think gay sex is a sin or summat.”

“Give over,” John scoffed, following him into the room. The air smelled like him; Dior Sauvage, hairspray, and Vicks Vaporub. “Swear you weren’t even listening to anything he said. You were too busy trying to make me laugh the entire time.”

Jack threw himself onto his bed and raised his arms behind his head. He knew exactly what he was doing to John by lying down like that, practically taunting him with those eyes and that smirk, and the way his shorts had bunched up around the top of his thighs and his t-shirt had rode up to reveal a slither of his toned stomach.

“Only ‘cause you looked like you were getting sentenced to life in prison.”

It was a fair enough comment. The meeting may as well have been a bloody trial at the Hague. John and Jack had both agreed not to say a word about Ross or Chilwell, maintaining that what Southgate didn’t know couldn’t hurt him. Their manager had pressed them anyway, asking how long their relationship had been going on, who knew, how much it had affected their ability to perform. John had lied through his teeth of course - anything to get back into the team. He’d been through a fucking rollercoaster over the past twelve months and as much as he needed a breather he knew the ride wasn’t coming to an end anytime soon.

Jack hadn’t stopped asking questions about the matter either. John joined him on the bed, choosing to lie across the width of it with his lanky legs hanging off the end, and Jack took the chance to ask about his therapy and medication, no doubt hoping he’d be a bit more honest now Southgate wasn’t dissecting every word like a grand jury. 

“Medication isn’t the long-term solution,” John found himself saying. “As stupid as it sounds, talking helps me more.”

Jack gazed at him, wide-eyed, and rested his head back against his pillow. “Doesn’t sound stupid at all. But I guess it’s not as simple as, like… talking about your day.”

“Not really, but we do that anyway. I get given exercises that make you think in a certain way.”

“What like?”

“The last one was made up of three steps. First I have to say everything in my life that I know for certain, then everything that’s a possibility, then everything that’s false. The point is that you end up realising you’re focusing way too much on the things that aren’t true.”

A small smile appeared on Jack’s face as he hung on every word. “Do it for me.”

“Well,” John began, “we’d start by saying you’re Jack Grealish, you’re twenty-five, and you’re from Solihull.”

Jack’s smile grew. “I like how you said Solihull and not Birmingham.”

“It’s like when people say I’m from Sheffield, but I’m not.”

“You’re from Barnsley.”

“Too right. And that’s a certainty. Also certain is that you play for Aston Villa, and that you’re their captain. And then you’d go onto possibilities. Things that could be true, but also things that could be false. A matter of opinion.”

“I’m a diver,” he declared. The statement was clearly sarcastic but had rolled off his tongue far too quick for it not to have been on his mind. 

“You came out with it, not me. But you’re not,” John took it upon himself to say. “What I would’ve said is that you’re an amazing player, with so much potential. Potential to be world class one day very soon.”

Modest as ever, Jack stayed quiet for a few moments, letting John’s words wash over him. 

“And then you go onto things that aren’t true?”

“Yeah. I last saw my psychologist about two weeks ago. And the things I’d always listed as not being true were properly looking up. At the end of summer I’d have said my career was over, that I was done at City. I wasn’t a top six player and I’d never play for England again.”

“And look at you now.”

John nodded and wished Jack knew just how it felt to hear him say that. “I picked myself up and I worked hard for my place.”

“And here we both are, playing for England. Maybe I should start doing this exercise myself, see if it makes me world class after all,” Jack mused, raising his eyebrows. “I’m Jack Grealish, I’m twenty-five, from Solihull, and I play for Villa. I play for England now, too. But only ‘cause of John Stones, who gave up his spot for me a couple of months ago.”

John’s stomach dropped. “How long have you known about that?”

“Since it happened. Southgate told me fair and square, he offered the place to you, not me. But here we are now, both playing for England, because to be honest, you’re too good not to. And when you’re supported and you look after yourself, and let people in, like you have done with Walker, and Raheem, and Kevin De Bruyne - which is mad for me to say, by the way—”

“Right little fanboy, aren’t you?” 

“Back to what I was saying, thank you…” Jack scolded, knowing there was no need to deny it, “you’re amazing, John. You’re proving to everyone right now that you are. Everyone can see how hard you’ve worked to get back to your best. And I don’t see why you couldn’t be world class, either.”

“All that sounded plausible until the last bit.”

“Alright,” Jack grinned, “I’ll tell you something that’s one hundred percent certain, then.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

John thought he’d misheard or maybe even imagined Jack’s words. But the wide smile on his face and the confidence exuding from him confirmed he’d said it, had said he loved him, plain as day. It had come out of nowhere but also felt long overdue, regardless of the time and distance that had been put between them to keep them apart, regardless of whatever anyone else might say.

“I love you too, Jack.”

“Thought you might.”

There’d been no avoiding the inevitable after that. John didn’t know what he’d do if anyone found out he’d shagged one of his teammates on international duty, but he supposed he wasn’t the only one taking the hit, not now Jack was an England international and equally responsible. There was a lot of hushing each other, giggling carelessly, as the headboard knocked against the wall and Jack fought to keep his wails and whines of pleasure to a minimum. John pressed his hand over Jack’s mouth to shush him, which backfired when Jack took John’s fingers into his mouth and began sucking on them. Being as useless at self-discipline as John was, the noise only grew in volume.

“It’s only Tyrone and Jadon on either side anyway,” Jack murmured as John switched positions, allowing them both a moment to catch their breath. “They’re probably slipping it to some bird they’ve snuck in.”

“Highly doubt that, babe,” John told him. He decided to fuck him extra hard after that, just for good measure - it certainly had nothing to do with the fact Mings was on the other side of a few inches of plasterboard. And Jack felt it. 

It wasn’t long before the heavenly swell of pressure grew in John’s stomach and thighs, and he had to will himself not to come undone too soon. He pressed his forehead against Jack’s, thrusting deeper, and grasped needily at his skin. 

“Tell me you’re mine,” he murmured, cradling Jack’s face.

“I’m yours,” he gasped with no hesitation, body moving in perfect synchronisation with John’s. “No one else’s, only yours. I’m yours, John.”

-

The following morning was a weird one. John’s emotions were all over the place from the moment he opened his eyes. First it was elation that he was waking up beside Jack, and then it was pure terror someone might’ve heard them together. On top of that the nerves started to set in when he realised it was the last day of the break and their final game against Iceland was in a matter of hours. He’d do nothing but beat himself up if he didn’t at least get out onto the pitch, and yet he was all too aware there was nothing he could do about it now.

And after that? Outside the four walls of St George’s, back out into the big, wide world of the Prem, there was a Christmas period overloaded with tough fixtures looming. For once John was ready to welcome the challenge, ready to stake a claim on that starting spot over Aymeric. But now he’d found himself with another thing to consider. Where did he and Jack stand? To anyone else it would’ve been obvious. A mutual confession of love and some of the best sex he’d ever had should’ve been obvious.

Jack had woken the moment the thought crossed John’s mind and started chuckling to himself, alerting John to his consciousness.

“Trust the first thing I see when I wake up to be you biting your nails. Tell me you got some sleep at least.”

It had been the best night’s sleep he’d had in months, and he wasn’t just saying that for the sake of it. He usually hated sharing a bed with someone, hated the heat and the lack of space and not being able to move out of fear of waking the other person, but he’d been out like a light and completely slept through. There was hardly anything to complain about when sleeping next to Jack, anyway. Not when he was more than happy to wake up and play with John’s hair, or scratch his back, or suck him off.

They devised a plan to go down to breakfast separately and keep their distance for the most part, or at least until after the full squad meeting in which Southgate would presumably name the lineup before they boarded the coach for Wembley. But first John had to sneak out of Jack’s room and get to his own without being caught. 

Jack groaned at the sight of John hovering by the door, peering through the peephole for the twentieth time. 

“Go on, you wuss. No one in here’s smart enough to put two and two together anyway.”

“With all the bloody whining you were doing last night I don’t think they’d be far off.”  
“Speak for yourself. You were making a fair bit of noise this morning.”

By the time Jack got in the shower, aware John would leave once he no longer had anyone to bicker back and forth with, his cheeks had just about stopped burning. The corridors and stairwell were all clear. John thought he’d actually got away with it until he reached his room and couldn’t get the fucking door to open, the tiny light on the lock flashing red every time he presented his keycard. It was just his luck that Pickford stepped out into the corridor at the same time he was struggling to get into his room. 

“You been down for breakfast already, Stonesy?” Jordan asked as he shut his own door behind him.

“Er— no, no,” he mumbled, refusing to turn his head. He was multitasking, trying to unlock his door, and now having to think of a plausible excuse as well. Inevitably, he was failing at both. “Just went down for some water.”

“You not got any bottles in your room?”

“No, drank them all.”

“Could you not use the tap?”

“Didn’t have a glass.”

“And you couldn’t just drink straight from the tap?”

“I’m not an animal, Jordan,” John snapped, rattling the door handle desperately. “Here, Pickers mate, can you have a go at opening my door? Can never get the knack of the fucking keycard.”

Jordan huffed and pulled a face as if John had somehow inconvenienced him, but he still made his way over. He prised the card out from John’s fingers and on the first try unlocked the door, edging it open with his knuckles.

“Should’ve known that would happen,” John said sheepishly. 

Jordan just stared back at him. Now was one of the rare times that the keeper didn’t look entirely clueless, and Jordan could actually be quite sharp when he wasn’t being clueless.

“Might need to work on your excuses, Stonesy,” he said. “You don’t even have a glass, you know, for the water.”

“Maybe I drank the water downstairs and left the glass there, Jordan.”

“That’s a very elaborate way of saying you’re shagging Grealish.”

“Jesus, say it a little louder why don’t you?” John seethed, just waiting for someone else to walk out of their room. “Take it everyone fucking knows, then?”

“No, mate,” Jordan answered cooly, not seeing what all the bother was about. “The gaffer called me into his office last night after he was done with the two of you’s to talk to me about how things are going, you know, after I clattered into that red cunt not too long ago. Being nosey I asked what you two’d been in there together for. Like you, he hadn’t thought of an excuse, got a bit flustered, and you know, it’s pretty obvious you’re both a bit bent like, so it didn’t take much for me to put two and two together. Figured it must be serious if the two of you are seeing the gaffer about it.” He clapped a hand against John’s shoulder and shook him roughly. “Happy for you, mate.”

John put his head in his hands and wasn’t sure whether to laugh or scream. It was too fucking early for this. 

“Well cheers I guess, Jord,” he sighed. “You open your gob to anyone and I’ll tell your missus all about that night you spent in Volgograd with those lovely Russian prostitutes.”

“You bastard. Fair enough, though,” he conceded, cracking a smile. “See you down at breakfast, Stonesy.”

He did soon see him again at breakfast, and Jack too, though John chose to sit with Walks, Keano and Tripps. Looking around him he saw a squad that didn’t quite feel as close as the fabled World Cup one, but he thought that was maybe just nostalgia and the fact that this year had been a strange one. They were all still fighting for places too, and while the lad next to you was your mate in the canteen, he was your enemy in training. There were twenty-three places in the squad for next summer, and John could feel it in the air, all the tension and the uncertainty that the best players thrived off.

But at this moment in time there were only eleven starting positions in the game they’d be playing that evening. When Southgate announced the lineup and said John’s name along with Jack’s it justified everything, all the hours of hard work and determination, the tears and the sleepless nights.

They were still set to play a three-four-three like in the previous games, and with John in the back three beside Maguire and Walks, Dier had been the one dropped from the lineup. John still hadn’t spoken to him since their confrontation before Belgium, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Eric was unbeatable when it came to keeping grudges where John was usually useless, but the worry that their relationship would only worsen if he tried to force Eric into speaking had convinced him to keep his thoughts to himself.

But this was the last chance he would have to put it right, and he wasn’t going to walk on eggshells around Eric any longer. When Southgate adjourned the meeting John approached Eric just as everyone else began to leave and sat down beside him, hands in his pockets.

“Can we talk?” 

He told himself he wouldn’t be surprised if Eric just got up and left, but he was even less surprised by the man’s response.

“I’ve been benched ‘cause of you.”

“I’m sorry Eric,” John said, mostly because he didn’t know what else to say, and less because he meant it. He supposed he meant it in the way that it was a shame to see one of his good mates dropped, but nothing else. “I’m sorry for what I said the other day in front of everyone. Was wrong for me to do that. Have you spoken to Del lately?”

There was no need for John to have asked; he’d already texted Dele and found out for himself that way. It was fair to say the answer Dele had given wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. He’d said Eric had been as good as ignoring him, acting as if he didn’t exist, and Del had no idea what to do. John knew getting Eric to speak about any of it would be like trying to get blood out of a stone, but he felt obliged to try.

“This needs sorting, mate,” he sighed, trying to meet Eric’s eyes. “Can’t stand seeing you and Del like this.”

Eric tutted snidely. “Just drop it, John. There’s nothing to sort. It’s done.”

“How’d you mean, done?” he asked, laughing anxiously. “Done, as in sorted?”

“Done, as in Dele’s fucking going in January.”

“Going? Going where?”

“I don’t know,” Eric shrugged, shoulders rigid. “Abroad, probably.”

“Abroad?” John repeated, heart in his throat. “As in, like, a different country? A different club in a different country?”

“How many balls have you headed today?” he hissed, head finally snapping to face John. “Are you fucking dumb?”

There was something deeply unsettling about Eric when he was pissed off. It was his calmness and the way he could fucking turn on you in a heartbeat. The instant fire in his dark, beady eyes and the way his fury showed on his face was enough to make anyone back down. John’s mind went to Dele, soft and sensitive Dele who struggled to fight his own corner on a good day, leaving no wonder as to the way things had crumbled between them.

“Alright Eric,” John said, straightening himself out, “there’s no need to be like that about it. Listen, though. I’ve spoken to Gareth. He’s said we can talk directly to the FA, and now they’ll be getting a new chairman, they’ll take us seriously for once. We can look into legal things to do with the press, and ejecting fans if they—”

“You just don’t get it, do you? Stop getting involved.”

John scoffed, feeling as if he’d been winded. “Stop getting involved? I’m as much a part of this as you are, Eric.”

“I don’t give a shit about what Southgate’s promised you, or what’s going on with you and Grealish, but I can tell you’re still in your honeymoon phase. Del and I did that shit for years John, and believe me, with what comes when it’s time to settle down it’s not worth it. You’re living in a dreamland if you think the FA will do anything to help. Dele going away is what’s best for the both of us, and that’s all you should care about.”

John found that hard to believe, but out of both respect and pity he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He did have a lot of other things he wanted to say though, wanted to give Eric a piece of his fucking mind, to tell him Dele was really hurting. The bottom line was that they were friends. What did that mean if they couldn’t say the things they wanted to say? Not to put one another down, but to help?

“Can I be honest with you, Eric?”

“I’d rather you weren’t actually, John,” he replied, not a hint of sarcasm or humour to his words.

At least John had tried. He’d stand by that.

“Of course. Fine,” he mumbled. “Whatever’s best for you and Del.”

Everything around him felt muted for the next few hours. He went to his room and gathered his things, stripping the bed and ensuring his suitcase was ready by the door. Most of the squad had fixtures in two day’s time, and with their clubs practically begging for them back, they’d all be going straight home from Wembley after the match. At the start of the break John would’ve never thought he’d be wishing to stay, but after last night he didn’t want to have to sleep alone again.

He was one of the first to the coach and found a seat near the back. John had watched from home in early September when England had faced Iceland in a dull one-nil win, and though tonight was a Nation’s League match and not just a friendly, they’d narrowly missed out on the chance to qualify for the finals of the tournament and so in the grand scheme of things tonight was far from a big match. The spark that brightened things was the notion of playing for England again, and playing with Jack, not against him. Same team, same shirt - being able to pass the ball to one another, knowing it accounted for something. And at Wembley, no less.

Given, it was an empty Wembley, but walking out under those arches again was even more surreal knowing Jack was two steps behind him. John stood between Pickford and Tripps for the national anthem and hoped his voice wouldn’t pick up on the camera’s microphone that was promptly shoved in their faces.

It hit him that the last time he’d played at Wembley had been in February in the League Cup final just as the referee blew his whistle to start the ninety minutes. The Cup final in which they’d played Villa, after which Jack had asked John if he’d take him on a date, and had teased him and flirted with him and called him soft for the first time. John wanted to sprint over to Jack and remind him about it right there and then, but the ball was coming his way, high up in the air as Iceland’s keeper bombed it over the top for the first time. John doubted it’d be the last, either.

That was the most he had to worry about for some time. Iceland pretty much rolled over and at the ten minutes mark England were playing like City. John and Kyle hovered just above the halfway line ready to stop a counter as the rest of them played passes and crossed the ball into the box until it went out for corner after corner. Jack would’ve had three assists to his name had anyone actually been able to finish.

They were a quarter of the way in when Rice scored from a corner, his first England goal. A mere three minutes later Mount added a second to the tally, and Foden was literally taking shots left, right, and centre, the keeper pulling his only good saves out of his pocket for the lad. He probably should’ve had a hat-trick by half time. John envisioned Pep sat at home with an Estrella in hand, fuming. 

And while everyone had put in a pretty flawless first half performance, one man was once again head and shoulders above the rest.

John wished there was a crowd, if only to experience the mass hush and collective clatter of seats when everyone rose to their feet the moment Jack got on the ball. There were very few players who could do that, who could convince a crowd that they were capable of creating magic with nothing more than an open space in front of them and the ball at their feet. John had been lucky enough to play with those who’d done it best; with David, with Kun, with Kevin, and with Leroy. Even without a crowd, Jack was going right on that list.

Despite that, he’d started to frustrate John. At half time Southgate had said nothing other than for them to enjoy themselves and keep playing as they were, but as soon as they were back out on the pitch and five minutes in John had something to say to Jack himself. He’d assisted twice over his five games for England but was still to score. It wasn’t that John thought he needed to prove anything - he’d done more than that already - but to top it all off with a goal would beat anything else, and John knew he was more than capable of doing it.

After yet another of Jack’s inch-perfect crosses were wasted by a fluffed shot and a block, going behind for a corner, John couldn’t hold it in any longer. On his way to take his place in the box he strode up alongside Jack and looked him in the eyes.

“Fucking shoot!” he told him, covering his mouth with his hand. “I don’t wanna see you crossing it in again. The space will open up for you if you want it to.”

“Yeah, well, that’s easy enough for you to say,” Jack frowned. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Well that’s why I’m a fucking defender and you’re out on the wing.”

Jack had no time to reply as John hurried himself off and got into position at the far post. Mount swung the ball in from the corner and despite getting into space the cross was just too high for John to reach, swinging out again, this time for the keeper to take.

John’s focus instantly went to Jack. His head was down, shoulders hunched as he milled over this patch of grass on the edge of the pitch. He’d not been too harsh, had he? He hadn’t meant it like that, hadn’t been putting him down or criticising how he was playing, and he’d have thought Jack would’ve known that. Dominic, Jadon and Jude were all warming up at the side, and with five subs for Southgate to make it made sense to take off those who’d played the most minutes over the break. John’d seem like a right wanker now if Jack got subbed off without having a go on goal. 

And for that, he needed a chance. Iceland’s keeper took his kick, sending it high over the top towards England’s backline. John came forward and headed it down to Kyle, then yelled at him to pass it back while Iceland were out of shape. Kyle hesitated for a moment but saw the look on John’s face and promptly returned it. 

John drove forward and forced Iceland up the pitch with him. Their forwards had given up pressing altogether, which afforded him all the time in the world to pick his pass. One straight through the midfield along the turf would be easier for whoever was on the receiving end to control, but also easier to intercept. One up in the air, a long, curving pass to the very edge of the pitch would allow whoever it landed with more space to run into, but make it more difficult in the final third as they were so wide.

But John had always felt that the attacking player ended up picking the pass for him. Some days it had been David, funnelling between the tight pockets of space along the halfway line, and some days it had been Leroy, hands up as he indicated he was roaming in space and ready to cut in. 

Today it was Jack, positioned far out on the left, head up and alert to John’s move before he’d even made it.

The ball left his boot and looped low in the air, coming down on Jack’s foot with a feather-light landing. The pass had practically taken the rest of the players on the pitch out of play, and Jack found himself in bounds of space. John grit his teeth when he saw Phil and Mason making runs towards the box, flanked by Iceland’s backline, and found himself hoping and praying Jack would listen to what he’d said.

There was no dribbling with it at his feet, no taking on the wingback or fucking about. Jack sprinted into the box, and one on one with the keeper made his shot. A spine-tingling clink rang out around the empty stadium as the ball skimmed the post on its way in, rippling the net in its wake.

John’s grin stretched from ear to ear as he watched Phil and Bukayo throw their arms around Jack’s shoulders, guiding him over to the corner where the lads warming up joined in on congratulating him. It was nothing out of the ordinary for John to be the last to the celebration, and this time he’d done it on purpose, savouring the approach and biding his time until he could have Jack all to himself.

Jack looked as if he didn’t quite know what to do when he finally laid eyes on John. “How was that?” he asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice as he feigned the cold shoulder.

John could see right through it. “Keeper’s positioning was shit,” he declared, wrapping an arm around Jack’s shoulder. “Beautiful finish, though.”

A smile appeared on Jack’s face just as John knew it would, bright and blinding and proud. 

“Always have to be right, don’t you?” he said, and with a playful pinch on the back of John’s neck they went back to their starting positions. 

Jack was subbed off not long after, and Phil deservedly scored two in quick succession, the scoreline a tidy five-nil when the final whistle blew. A clean sheet and an assist for John, a goal for Jack, and for the both of them a performance that screamed hope you were fucking watching Gareth. 

They filed into the dressing room in good spirits, showered and changed, and were told there was food upstairs for them before they all departed and went their separate ways until March. Jack was pulled to the side for media duties, leaving John to stuff his face with Kyle beside him.

“Trust you to pull an assist out of the bag when it means a goal for Grealish,” Kyle muttered through a mouth-full of food. “What’s that, your first in about three seasons?”

“I’ll have you know I got one in the cup in January.”

“Two assists, what’s that then, a year end best?”

John dropped his fork and leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowed. “You trying to wind me up, Walks?”

“Just not used to seeing you on cloud nine,” Kyle teased, reaching forward to poke John’s cheek. “You’re actually smiling.”

John didn’t know what to say, so he just gazed at Kyle and smiled even harder. Not long after he’d finished eating he felt his phone buzz in his pocket. 

J | 22:36  
Come meet me, in press room x

He didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed his chair out from the table, told Kyle he was going to the loo, and practically skipped through the corporate Wembley concourse until he reached the press conference hall. The lights were still on but the room was deserted, save for Jack sat on a chair near the very front of the room, head down as he used his phone to take a picture of something on the floor in front of him.

Moving closer John realised Jack was surrounded by three man of the match trophies. Three out of three for him in a break where he’d scored his first senior goal, notched two assists, and ran circles around Kevin De Bruyne. He deserved all of it and more. The thought was enough to set John off.

He welled up just as Jack raised his head. The look of worry and panic on his face was so severe that John had to hold in his laughter.

“The fuck you crying for now?” 

John swiped at his eyes and willed himself not to produce any more tears. “Just thinking about all you’ve achieved this year.”

The wide, pure smile that spread across Jack’s face made John’s heart soar.

“You’re fucking soft, you,” he said, raising out of his seat. “I told the kitman to put your suitcase with mine by the way. You ready to go home?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's that for now. I write a lot but hand on heart this is the first thing I have ever, ever finished. Sometimes I'll reread certain parts and wish I'd done better or maybe not even published at all but for me to look back at these 25 chapters now and see a full arse story is honestly probably my greatest achievement this year. Regardless of quality (and cringe at some of the earlier bits) it was something I stuck with and loved doing it. I can't thank u all enough for your comments, they kept me going and made it worthwhile.
> 
> As for continuing this story, I started it out of sheer self interest and never thought it'd get this far, but my god does life imitate art - as I write this John is having the best run of form in his life and City are about to put a new contract on the table for him, and those Grealish to City rumours just won't let up as he proves he's pretty much world class. I still won't allow myself to get my hopes up about John and Jack both being in that squad next summer because the comedown if it doesn't happen will be too much to take, but if everything keeps going the way it is there's no reason why the pair of them won't be in that Euros team. And if they are, roll on next summer, god knows I could finally do with some more content other than those pics of John crouched over Jack after the league cup final. Fingers crossed, I hope u all have an amazing new year and an even better 2021 x


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